POEMS. 


BY 


GOLD-PEN, 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  AND  CO. 
1856. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856,/>y 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  AND  CO., 

in  the  Office  of  the  Clerk  of  the  District  Court  of  the  UillWStates  ,i 
for  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


ps, 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 
WOMAN  % 13 

SPRING    .         .        .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .18 

TEMPTATION     .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .20 

MORNING         .    •    .        .        .        .        .        .        .     ;  «    ;    •      24 

THE  CHEERFUL  MIND .         .27 

UNBELIEF        .         .         .    - 31 

OCTOBER          ..........       33 

EVENTIDE        . .         .36 

UNLAWFUL  AFFECTIONS 40 

AMBITION 43 

TIME 46 

TEMPER 49 

THE  WEIGHT .         .51 

THE  NECESSITY  OF  FAITH  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .53 

SELF-ACQUAINTANCE 55 

DISCOURAGEMENT  TO  LABOR        .......      58 

THE  DREAD  OF  OUR  TASK 61 

THE  HOPE  OF  HEAVEN 63 

NATURE 66 

THE  POET  TO  HIS  BOOK 71 

THE  FAMILY  VAULT 73 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAOB 
THE  PBAYER  MEETING 77 

SILENT  INFLUENCES 79 

THE  SINFUL  THOUGHT 81 

THE  STEEPLE 83 

THE  OBDEBINGS  OF  GOD'S  PROVIDENCE 85 

THE  POET 87 

THE  DYING  HOUR 91 

THE  HOSPITAL 94 

THOUGHT  ASTRAY     .    .     .        .        .        .....        .97 

LABOR     ..............        .        .     103 

THE  INKSTAND     .....        .        ......        .     107 

PREMEDITATION 110 

MY  DESK 112 

THE  NATURAL  INTELLECT  .        .        .        .        .        .        .117 

POSTHUMOUS  FAME 118 

HERE  AND  HEREAFTER      .        .        ......        ...     119 

THE  SNOW-STORM 120 

THE  SECRET  SIN .    :.,^     124 

IMMORAL  WRITING    .    .     .        .    .     .        .........     127 

THE  PRESENT  .         .         .         .         .........     128 

THE  EYE  OF  FLESH   .......        .....        .129 

OUR  LIFE    .....        . 130 

THE  WORK  OF  ART  .......        ...        .        .        .132 

THE  ANGLER 133 

THE  RELEASE  .....        ...        .        .        .        .        .     134 

PRAISE    .............        .        .        .135 

OUR  CHANGING  FRAMES 137 

THE  SCULPTOR          .        .        ...        .        .        .         .     139 

Music  140 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

PAGE 
THE  DREAM 143 

THE  INTERIOR  OF  THE  HEART 155 

THE  THINGS  AROUND  Us 168 

CROWS  178 


POEMS  IN  RHYME. 

MY  COTTAGE .         .         .  181 

THE  DINING-ROOM  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 196 

THE  Two  GRAVES 220 

THE  RIVER 224 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CHRISTIAN 231 

PHCEBE  ANN  JACOB'S  COTTAGE 233 

SAVED  BY  GRACE 236 

THE  PHILADELPHIA  LIBRARY      .......  239 

"PUTTING  OFF" .  243 

AUTUMN 245 

THE  LOFTY  PLACE 246 

THE  HISTORY  OF  A  DOLLAR 249 

SABBATH  AFTERNOON 264 

LITTLE  ELLIE  ..........  270 

THE  POETIC  FACULTY 279 

SEVERITY  AND  GENTLENESS 281 

SELF-CONCEIT 282 

To  HIM  WHO  LOVES  TO  MEDITATE 284 


POEMS. 


WOMAN. 

THAT  passion  which  impels  us  in  our  youth — 
In  our  warm  wooing  season — is  a  cheat : 
It  doth  dethrone  grave  Eeason,  and  exalts 
Fancy  unto  her  seat ;  and  Fancy,  crowned, 
Doth  busily  use  her  sceptre.     Waving  quick 
The  magic  wand,  some  spirit  riseth  up, 
Adorned  by  every  virtue,  but  unmarred 
By  any  fault.     This  spirit  we  invest 
Straightway  in  some  familiar  form  of  flesh, 
Then  offer  to  it  reverence,  knowing  not 
'Tis  but  a  net  we  woven  have  ourselves. 
No  actual  charms  or  merit,  howe'er  great, 
If  only  human,  long  can  fill  the  place 
Of  what  we  deemed  perfection ;  nor  can  joys, 
2 


14  WOMAN. 

Though  reaching  to  the  summit  of  man's  lot, 

Attain  the  height  of  mere  imagined  bliss: 

Then  comes  revulsion,  and  we  stand  again 

On  the  bare  earth,  from  our  high  airy  flight 

Harshly  let  down.     This  life's  reality, 

By  new  cares  added  to  our  former  stock, 

Is  proven;  while  our  vision's  fallacy 

Is  not  kept  up  by  an  unbroken  sleep. 

Now  is  the  time  we  must  again  begin 

To  build,  while  yet  the  ruins  scattered  lie 

From  our  first  thought,  blocking  our  onward  path : 

And,  if  we  weigh  them  all,  we  then  shall  find, 

United,  that  they  equal  not  that  left. 

The  true  possession  of  a  heart's  regard, 

Is  more  than  all  those  unreal  fantasies 

Which  but  a  touch  of  actual  life  dissolves. 

But  though  this  be  the  experience  and  route 

Which  man  must  struggle  thro',  which  he  must  pass, 

Ere  he  can  rest  his  love  on  solid  base, 

Woman  is  not  led  by  so  far  a  round. 

Her  first  love  changes  less  in  hue  and  shape, 

Founded  not  so  much  on  delusive  sense, 

Which  doth  depend  on  circumstance  without. 

It  at  the  first  springs  from  a  deeper  source, 


WOMAN.  15 

And  is  more  pure.    It  changeth  not  its  course 

From  slight  obstructions  thrown  up  in  its  track, 

Though  they  be  real,  but  doth  o'erflow  them  all. 

What  seems  to  man's  quick  delicate  sense  a  thing 

To  pause  at,  or  shrink  back  from  in  disgust, 

Her  deep  intenser  passion  swallows  up 

And  burieth  in  love.     Not  for  weak  praise, 

Nor  that  the  echoes  of  stale  flattery 

Shall  in  due  time  come  back  to  mine  own  ear, 

Do  I  thus  speak.     Nor  is  it  to  fill  up 

My  page  for  shallow  fancies  crude,  unreal, 

That  now  go  hungering  through  the  world  for  food — 

It  is  of  wedded  love  I  speak,  long  tried. 

And  in  this  I  do  but  exalt  Grod's  works, 

For  he  hath  so  adorned  her  and  seen  fit 

To  fortress  in  her  bosom  as  its  place 

And  sanctuary  here,  the  truest  love. 

She  hath  her  faults,  and  laid  both  in  that  scale 

Which  weigheth  not  one  virtue  but  sums  all 

We  both  alike  to  utter  want  sink  down. 

Yet  even  where  such  frailties  and  defects 

Do  cover  her  without,  that  to  the  eye 

Looking  but  casually,  there  seemeth  left 

Naught  to  allure — even  there,  if  we  could  pierce, 


16  WOMAN. 

Beneath  all  these,  would  lie  the  faculty 
Idle  or  to  some  secret  object  bound, 
Of  deathless  and  self-sacrificing  love. 

I  would  not  paint  that  picture  which  leaves  out 
A  mutual  imperfection.     Life  is  still 
But  as  before — a  stream  that  struggles  on 
Through  a  low  rocky  channel,  fretting  oft 
O'er  shoals  and  narrows  to  a  boundless  sea. 
Thou  never  wilt  have  learned  so  well  as  then 
How  fast  we  are  bound  to  mortality. 
For,  as  our  lot  goes  on  unfolding  still, 
It  is  God's  purpose  that  we  should  discern 
That  there  is  nothing  unmixed  here.     A  taint, 
An  earthen  tinge  discolors  every  drop. 
There  is  not  one  delight  so  fenced  about 
And  separate  in  its  single  purity, 
But  we  may  look  from  it  when  at  its  height 
With  longing  eye  to  where  'twill  be  more  pure 
Or  quite  lost,  midst  more  satisfying  joys. 
Yet  here  'tis  His  design  for  a  brief  space 
We  should  abide,  and  all  his  ordinances, 
If  mixed  with  faith  in  Him,  are  for  our  good. 
If  thou  canst  cherish  then  one,  as  thyself, 
Who,  in  respect  of  all  that  seems  to  lift 


WOMAN.  17 

Above  this  world,  will  soon  be  lowered  down 
To  thine  own  level,  but  who  in  some  gifts, 
And  first  that  one  of  loving,  is  made  rich, 
Take  her!    But  take  her  not  if  thou  wilt  frown 
On  the  reality  when  from  her  fall 
Those  unreal,  weak  imaginings,  wherewith 
Thou  hadst  invested  her,  not  at  her  call, 
But  of  thyself,  covering  all  frailties  o'er. 

He  hath  my  pity  who  on  woman  looks 

As  she  is  in  our  midst  and  findeth  not 

That  in  her  heart  which  moves  his  own  to  praise. 

And  though  I  speak  it  not,  the  unseen  hand 

Which  ordereth  every  man  in  our  esteem, 

Putteth  him  down  to  a  far  lower  place 

Who  weighs  her  lightly  in  dishonoring  speech. 

When  the  blue  vault,  with  all  its  stars  disclosed, 

Or  the  majestic  mountain,  or  the  plain, 

Or  the  low  flower,  are  seen  not  or  unfelt, 

'Tis  not  the  fault  of  nature,  but  the  lack 

Of  the  illumined  eye  in  him  that  looks : 

So  by  the  wisest  is  she  best  beloved 

And  prized  by  him  who  knows  what  true  wealth  is. 


2* 


SPRING. 

EVEN  while  I  write  she  comes !    As  by  the  side 

Of  the  smooth  river  watching,  oft  I  see 

The  breeze  approach  with  ripples  and  white  crests, 

So  we  discern  her  presence  hast'ning  up 

From  the  far  south.     Or  shall  I  her  compare 

To  one  whose  task  it  is  to  beautify  ? 

Like  the  bride  decked  for  the  near  nuptial  hour, 

She  circles  round  the  great  bare  earth  with  flowers. 

Or  painter  shall  I  call  her,  laying  on 

Bright  colors,  mingling  every  tint  with  skill? 

She  cometh  like  a  Princess,  with  her  train 

Of  singing  birds  attended.     Where  the  fields 

Lay  brown  and  barren  'neath  long  Winter's  reign 

She  calls  the  tender  blade — gardens  and  grounds 

For  summer  pleasures,  claiming  from  the  waste, 

And  the  sweet  narrow  path  lost  in  the  wood 

'Midst  autumn's  leaves  tracing  out  plain  again. 


SPRING.  19 

The  grave  she  spreadeth  with  fresh  covering. 
Ever  she  finds  some  new  one,  where  before 
'Twas  smooth  when  she  went  by.     She  passeth  not 
The  lowly  resting  place,  nor  yet  the  bed 
Of  him  who  here  was  rich.     Alike  o'er  both 
She  soweth  thick,  emblems  of  life  renewed. 

Ah,  when  shall  she  find  mine?    On  what  return 
Will  it  lie  near  her  path  ?    Beside  what  stream, 
Or  'neath  what  spreading  tree  shall  it  be  made  ? 
How  soon,  as  I  write  now  of  those  just  gone 
Shall  others  write  of  me  ?    Ponder,  my  heart ! 
Take  not  life's  shortened  thread  but  to  bind  up 
Poesy's  fading  flowers.     Although  thy  steps 
Be  told  not  in  thine  ear,  nor  the  days  left 
Unfolded  to  thy  sight,  yet  as  he  goes 
Who  hast'neth  by  the  seaside  to  embark, 
So  nearest  thou  thy  change.     Hast  thou  been  washed 
In  Blood  ?  and  doth  th'  impoverished  soul  put  on 
Another's  Eighteousness?    Then  shall  this  Spring, 
This  hour  of  nature's  laughter,  faintly  show 
The  blest  awaking  thou  shalt  know  in  heaven. 


TEMPTATION. 

ONE  brief  half  hour !  half  of  its  little  round, 
Upon  my  watch's  face  the  hand  must  go 
Ere  it  shall  be  complete,  my  time  of  toil ! 
'Twas  set  apart  divided  from  the  rest, 
As  a  just  portion,  but  so  nearly  done, 
Shall  I  not  leave  my  task  ?     Must  I  still  drag 
Through  those  few  weary  moments,  till  it  reach 
The  mark  appointed,  ere  I  can  be  free  ? 

Life  is  a  battle ;  rather,  may  I  say, 
Successive  conflicts  waged  in  every  hour. 
The  earnest  effort  would  abate  its  force, 
The  feeble  one  would  cease  to  strive  at  all. 
Each  sense  that  hath  its  home  within  the  flesh, 
Each  faculty  that  buildeth  up  the  mind, 
Breedeth  temptation.     If  I  would  but  feed 
My  necessary  appetite,  too  much 


TEMPTATION.  21 

I  take,  and  surfeiting  abate  my  strength. 
Or  using  such,  gifts  as  do  serve  my  task, 
They  leave  it  for  ambition,  soaring  up 
Beyond  their  lawful  flight  for  evil  fruit. 
So  do  we  walk  through  life,  our  way  beset 
By  foes  unnumbered,  who  not  sword  nor  spear 
Do  lift  against  us — but  would  draw  aside, 
By  moments  at  the  first — then  evermore 
From  the  straight  path  that  leadeth  to  the  end. 
If  we  do  yield,  though  quickly  to  return, 
We  rob  ourselves  of  so  much  at  the  goal ; 
But  often  yielding,  we  at  length  shall  lose 
That  keen  desire  for  progress  which  fills  him 
Who  on  all  paths  best  steps  the  hindrance  o'er. 

Temptation  is  the  tide  'gainst  which  we  tug, 
The  invisible  hand  that  presseth  at  our  breast, 
The  mire  that  holds  our  feet — the  crushing  load 
That  to  the  footway  bends  our  shoulders  down. 
It  scattereth  stones  where  most  the  path  is  smooth ; 
Holds  up  bright  pictures  to  the  right  and  left ; 
Weaveth  cool  bowers,  and  pours  out  crystal  streams, 
That  trickle  just  beside  the  sultry  road. 
It  useth  virtue's  aims  and  God's  own  works 
Of  beauty,  for  a  bait  t'  entice  the  soul. 


22  TEMPTATION. 

"We  listen  to  its  words,  then  stop  the  ear ; 

We  do  but  taste,  and  fling  the  draught  away ; 

We  pluck  a  blossom  but  to  note  its  hue, 

Thinking  not  we  are  led  thus  to  the  fruit. 

She  sendeth  first  a  thought — an  airy  thing, 

Whose  footsteps  make  no  sound  in  passing  by — 

It  fleeth  swiftly,  and  from  sight  is  gone. 

Then  not  so  dim  it  visits  us  again 

More  palpable  its  shape.     It  lingers  now 

A  little  longer  in  the  admiring  mind. 

Soon  it  becomes  a  frequent  guest — then  dwells 

There  as  its  home.    Next,  what  was  but  a  thought 

Tempts  us  in  substance,  and  the  deed  is  done. 

So  doth  she  win,  by  gradual  advance, 

Her  first  wound  scarcely  felt,  and  in  its  turn 

Each  one  succeeding  given  as  we  can  bear. 

How  canst  thou  war  against  a  foe  that  brings 
A  host  against  thee,  not  in  open  rank, 

Where  thou   mayst  look  on  them  and  weigh  their 

strength ; 

But  who  posts  at  each  avenue  to  the  soul, 
One  to  delude  by  threats  or  flattery  ? 
How  canst  thou  sift  the  whisperings  in  thy  ear  ? 


TEMPTATION.  23 

How  canst  thou  pierce  the  warriors  of  the  mind  ? 
How  rend  chains  that  acknowledge  not  thy  touch  ? 

Hath  not  our  Father  waiting  legions  too  ? 
Cannot  He  muster  battling  host  'gainst  host  ? 
Yes  !  at  his  word,  they  hem  his  own  about, 
Who  know  not  of  the  conflict  round  their  souls. 
Whene'er  thou  dost  escape,  or  to  the  fight 
Standing  dost  conquer,  it  is  but  by  Him ! 
How  oft  beset,  we  halt  upon  the  road, 
Seemingly  left  alone,  when  driven  back 
Our  foes  divide  and  leave  an  open  way! 
So  are  we  brought  on  by  Him — every  wound 
Telling  of  progress — Oh !  that  all  our  words 
Might  utter  praise ! 


MORNING. 

MY  Pillow !  how  oft  through  the  silent  hours 

Hast  thou  upheld,  as  in  the  lap  of  peace, 

This  weary  head  ?     When  for  day's  wasting  cares 

Came  pleasant  visions,  or  that  deeper  sleep 

Which  most  doth  rest  the  tired  mind,  and  bring 

Back  to  the  body  strength  that  toil  had  spent. 

Or,  fairer  yet,  those  viewless  angel  forms, 

That  nightly  from  the  heavens  come  hov'ring  down, 

To  camp  about  the  resting-place  of  those 

Who  do  fear  God.     They  wait  beside  the  bed 

Of  such  in  lowly  places,  in  the  cells 

Of  prisons  damp,  out  on  the  heaving  deep, 

Or  in  the  sumptuous  chambers  of  the  rich — 

Where'er  it  be,  the  angels,  while  they  sleep, 

Do  watch  beside  them,  noting  not  the  place, 

Its  loneliness,  nor  want  nor  grandeur  there, 

But  looking  on  the  heart  kindred  by  love. 


MORNING.  25 

This  is  the  dawning  time.     The  early  light 
That  comes  before  the  sun,  doth  but  dilute 
And  faintly  tinge  the  darkness.     I  awake 
And  hear  no  sound.     Then  on  the  stony  street 
The  wagon  rumbles,  lonely,  from  afar, 
Freighted  with  fruits  from  distant  smiling  fields. 
Soon  passeth  by  the  quick  and  sounding  tread 
Of  the  head-workman,  early  at  his  post. 
Thevbeams  grow  bright,  and  with  soft  call  arouse 
Thousands  from  sweet  rest !     Now  they  are  let  in 
At  chamber  windows.     Upright  on  the  bed, 
Propped  amid  pillows,  wrapped  and  tied  about, 
The  baby  babbling  sits,  while  from  their  tasks 
Those  who  around  put  on  their  day's  attire, 
Oft  run  to  chirrup  and  clap  hands  with  him ! 

%  ••*$!;  >ti<: 

But  from  the  sick  man's  room  th'  unwelcome  beams 
Are  driven  back,  and  one  pale  slender  ray 
Is  given  entrance.     He  has  found,  at  length, 
The  wished-for  slumber.     Heavily  sounds  his  breath; 
Th'  array  of  vials  in  disorder  round, 
May  not  be  righted  now.     A  form  steals  in 
On  tip-toe,  casting  first  an  anxious  glance 
Upon  the  sleeper — motions  then  to  her, 
Who  watcheth  by  him  to  her  turn  of  rest. 
3 


26  MORNING. 

Tread  softly !  breathe  not  loud,  lest  lie  awake  1 

Is  lie  a  Christian,  he  for  whom  Death  fights  ? 

Oh !  what  a  mighty  foe,  and  what  small  force 

"We  muster  'gainst  him  in  the  battling  hour ! 

A  feeble  woman  armed  with  mixtures,  draughts, 

Drops  and  dilutions  that  the  well  man  scorns ; 

Is  this  all  we  can  bring  ?     Must  he,  beloved, 

The  tender  father,  or  the  only  child, 

The  warrior,  or  the  monarch  from  his  throne, 

Come  thus  to  die,  not  compassed  round  with  power, 

But  in  a  closed-up  chamber,  all  alone  ? 

Arm  me,  then,  for  this  hour !     If  kingly  might, 

Or  riches,  or  the  wealth  of  intellect, 

Can  cope  not  with  it,  cover  o'er  my  soul 

With  armor  heavenly  tempered.     In  my  hands 

Place  those  keen  weapons  that  fight  not  with  flesh, 

But  which  are  spiritual,  for  I  here 

Would  rather  win  than  all  the  field  beside ! 


THE    CHEERFUL    MIND. 

WHY  is  it  that  I  walk  not  in  the  light 

When  it  is  shed  upon  my  path  ?    Beams  fall 

From  heaven — from  its  high  throne  to  guide  my  feet, 

They  make  the  way  plain,  yet  I  tread  it  not. 

How  beautiful  it  is  when  from  the  lips 

No  bitter  word  is  heard !    How  love  springs  up 

For  him  who  silent  waits  when  envious  thoughts 

Would  move  to  unkind  speech !    Yet  knowing  this 

Do  I  put  fetters  to  my  tongue,  or  drive 

Back  to  its  evil  source  suspicion's  charge  ? 

There  is  a  world  beside  that  seen  without, 

An  atmosphere  which  not  the  lungs  do  breathe, 

Yet  in  which  we  do  live.     From  mind  to  mind, 

From  heart  to  heart  the  currents  ebb  and  flow 

Of  feeling ;  underlying  all  we  see, 

As  the  deep  earth  which  neither  burns  nor  blooms, 


28  THE   CHEERFUL   MIND. 

Yet  doth  it  send  up  from  its  secret  depths 
Such  fruits  as  have  from  it  a  natural  birth. 

Behold,  how  through  fair  fields,  midst  vales  and  hills, 

The  widening  rivulet  doth  trace  its  course ; 

It  maketh  green  the  earth  far  from  its  path, 

While  o'er  its  glassy  bosom  many  a  mile, 

Hang  bending  trees,  where  birds  do  build  their  nests. 

At  intervals,  too,  sounds  the  busy  wheel, 

"Which  falling  on  it  drives.     The  mossy  mills, 

Like  sentinels,  are  posted  to  it  source. 

To  them  the  husbandman  doth  bear  his  grain 

Which  first  these  waters  nourished  in  the  field. 

So  is  it  with  Love's  river  through  the  heart, 

Enriching,  beautifying  all  the  plain. 

Would'st  thou  not  have  it  there,  and  make  wide  room 

That,  not  pent  up  nor  troubled,  it  might  flow  ? 

For  though  our  breasts  are  hidden  from  man's  eye, 

And  we  may  cover  them  from  nearest  friends, 

Yet  we  must  look  within.     The  prospect  there 

Is  our  familiar  view,  and  if  not  fair 

We 'reap  the  evil  harvest  day  by  day. 

There  are  those  who  do  oft  abhor  themselves, 

And  who,  if  they  might  turn  from  their  own  thoughts, 


THE   CHEERFUL   MIND.  29 

As  from  another's  presence,  would  neglect 
Of  choice  such  morose  company.     Alone 
They  walk,  and  that  in  conscious  bitterness: 
Blessings  strung  round  their  necks,  hands  filled  with 

good, 

The  offerings  of  love,  and  all  those  charms 
That  nature  wears  without,  cannot  undo 
The  fetters  on  their  spirits,  which  as  chains 
Hold  them  forever  to  some  galling  thing. 
Strange  is  it  that,  for  such,  affection  still 
Hath  bonds  and  grapples  that  may  not  be  loosed. 
Unkindness,  nor  that  harsh  repulsive  look 
Which  as  its  own  the  crabbed  temper  wears, 
Are  not  enough  to  shake  off  her  tight  grasp. 
So  do  we  see  that  faithfulness  brought  forth 
Which  God  hath  hidden  deep  in  woman's  heart, 
Against  the  day  of  need.     She  stands  in  love 
A  very  miracle,  and  knows  it. 
Why  didst  thou  woo  her  from  the  parent  nest, 
Paving  her  way  therefrom  with  many  vows, 
If  but  to  fail  her  too  confiding  step  ? 

Yet  not  the  railing  charge  would  I  here  bring — 
It  ill  befitteth  me — nor  train  my  tongue 
To  fluent  accusation ;  better  far 


30  THE   CHEERFUL   MIND. 

As  friends  together  let  us  muse  upon 
One  nature,  whose  infirmities  we  share, 
And  equally  divide.     Know'st  thou  then  not 
As  the  bright  sun  reviveth  with  his  light 
Each  green  blade  and  each  spot  he  looks  upon, 
Working  out  for  himself  a  most  fair  view, 
So  doth  the  cheerful  mind  ?    Caves,  dark  before, 
He  makes  effulgent;  crystals  hanging  there, 
And  hidden  gems,  greet  and  send  back  his  beams. 
He  looketh  in  the  Spring-time  on  some  spot 
"Withered,  or  by  the  nipping  frost  left  bare, 
And  life  starts  forth !     The  mind  hath  influence  ! 
That  is  more  subtle.     Where  no  outward  light 
May  find  room  doth  it  pierce.    Not  one  strong-hold 
Where  hides  the  evil  trait — not  one  recess 
Where  dwelleth  virtue,  but  it  entereth  there. 
Minds  are  made  kindred  by  a  nearer  tie 
Than  that  which  binds  us  closest  in  the  flesh. 
Brothers  long  sundered  may  each  mem'ry  lose, 
And  careless  meet  or  part,  but  never  yet 
Hath  mind  communed  with  mind  wholly  unmoved. 
If  it  be  so,  how  should  we  shed  upon 
Those  who  turn  ever  toward  us,  looking  up, 
For  what  shall  succor — kind  beams  day  by  day ! 


UNBELIEF. 

I  HAVE  been  tempted  to  repine,  and  doubt 
Ever  comes  nearly  yoked  with  discontent; 
For  if  I  murmur  and  do  fault  my  lot, 
Though  I  refuse  to  speak  the  open  charge. 
Yet  he  who  shapes  that  lot  goes  not  unblamed. 
"X    And  though  I  bar  the  door  against  such  thought, 
Yea,  though  it  knocketh  not — without  it  there 
My  love  within,  burns  by  a  fainter  flame. 
Can  I  esteem  this  life  bestowed  on  me, 
As  but  an  evil  gift,  and  look  upon 
The  pain  that  sometimes  wounds  it,  as  a  thing 
That  more  than  weighs  down  all  its  part  of  good? 
Can  I  thus  judge,  and  daily  from  His  hand 
Receive  my  portion,  honoring  my  God  ? 
Beware,  my  soul !  thou  hast  an  enemy 
Who  comes  not  undisguised  with  open  front, 
But  who  invisibly  doth  entrance  gain, 


32  UNBELIEF. 

And  where  gush  up  the  secret  springs  of  thought, 
Flings  in  the  bitter  drops  of  unbelief. 

Oh,  what  a  magic  glass  the  Tempter  hath, 

By  which  our  sorrows  do  as  worlds  appear 

But  blessings  thinly  scattered  grains  of  sand ! 

Dispel  the  cloud,  and  let  pervading  light 

Illume  my  contemplations,  oh,  my  God ! 

Let  me,  who  do  in  truth  revere  thy  Name 

And  honor  Thee,  in  no  way  lean  to  him 

Who  is  thy  sleepless  foe.     All  hardships  here 

Help  me  to  bear  as  burdens  that  are  light 

When  weighed  against  my  true  and  just  desert. 

And  oh,  more  than  the  rest,  arm  me  against 

That  dark  allurement  which  would  lead  me  forth 

Finite,  into  the  infinite  abyss 

Of  secret  purposes,  known  but  to  Thee, 

Lest  I  should  there  demand  things  unrevealed 

And  all  to  high.     As  but  a  little  child 

Fence  round  my  simple  and  unquestioning  faith. 

Eob  me  of  whate'er  seems  to  be  a  gift, 

(But  is  in  truth  my  poverty  and  want), 

If  it  would  bare  what  thou  still  keepest  veiled, 

Or,  for  my  blindness,  lessen  filial  love ! 


OCTOBER. 

THE  woods  are  changing  now.     Where  it  was  green, 

As  one  vast  tremulous  covering  o'er  them  thrown 

Are  grouping  many  colors  1    Yellow  here 

Softens  the  yet  fresh  foliage — tints  of  brown 

There  mingle  with  the  faded,  falling  leaves. 

While  farther  off  an  Evergreen,  that  stands 

Unchanged  amid  the  host,  as  to  proclaim 

The  autumn  too,  doth  hold  aloft  a  vine 

That  crept  up  undiscerned  in  summer's  days, 

But  now  is  changed  to  crimson.     See  its  wreaths 

Clothe  half  the   trunk,    and   through   the   spreading 

boughs 

Peep  out  at  intervals  with  gorgeous  hues  1 
Behind  this  narrow  strip  of  woods  is  shown 
But  half  disclosed — the  autumn  field  of  corn, 
Covered  with  standing  shocks.     Still  farther  off 
The  denser  forest  closes  in  the  scene, 


34  OCTOBER. 

A  thin  blue  haze  o'ermantling  it.     The  sky 
Is  checkered  with  huge  piles  of  snowy  clouds, 
Which  make  more  deep  its  azure. 

Here  a  tree 

Of  ample  girth,  and  towering  from  its  base 
To  a  great  height,  hath  covered  all  the  ground 
With  a  new  verdure.     Look,  where  broken  twigs 
With  boughs  torn  off,  and  yawning  bruised  burrs 
Are  intermingled  wide  beneath  its  shade ! 
This  is  the  Chestnut,  that  the  village  boys 
Have  misused  for  its  fruit,  and  now  it  stands 
Amid  the  tatters  of  its  sullied  dress, 
Like  one  hard  pressed,  yet  victor  in  the  fight. 
Their  fathers,  and  their  fathers  yet  again, 
Gathered  here  in  its  youth  as  they  do  now ; 
And  to  successive  generations  thus, 
It  yields,  untired,  a  plenteous  repast. 

Down  in  the  meadows  low,  a  mile  away, 

The  fog  hangs  o'er  the  ground.     Whence  did  they  rise 

And  group  thus,  those  impalpable  particles 

That,  what  in  presence  seems  to  have  no  form 

Or  substance,  so  removed  can  cheat  the  eye, 

Assuming  visible  shape  ?     All  nature's  realms, 


OCTOBER.  35 

Her  hidden  haunts,  and  her  revealed  domains, 

Are  stored  with  atoms,  forces,  influences, 

"Which  we  discern  not.     But  the  power  of  God, 

Going  forth  midst  all,  the  near  and  the  remote, 

By  day  and  night,  demands  from  every  one 

Its  own  appropriate  offering  and  service. 

The  little  that  we  know,  amid  the  things 

That  secret  are,  is  like  this  melting  mist 

Compared  with  the  great  earth  on  which  it  rests. 

There  is  no  object  touched  or  taken  in 

By  the  most  casual  glance,  but  that  it  hides 

Some  depth  we  may  not  fathom.     Knowing  this, 

How  should  I  feel,  as  daily  I  behold 

The  mysteries  round  me,  mine  own  littleness ! 

How  willingly  I  should  repose  in  Him, 

Who  thus,  as  through  a  veil,  reveals  his  power, 

My  trust !     These  wonders  were  not  framed  in  vain. 

Whatever  purpose  else  in  his  design, 

The  earth,  the  starry  heavens,  were  to  fulfil, 

They  are  for  me  spread  forth  as  witnesses, 

Ever  proclaiming  an  invisible  God, 

And  teaching  me  to  fix  on  Him  my  faith. 


EVENTIDE. 

THIS  is  the  hour  when,  far  back  in  old  time, 
Isaac,  at  eve,  walked  forth  to  meditate. 
Amid  green  fields  he  walked,  with  lowing  herds 
Far  scattered  round  him.     Who  can  tell  how  oft 
At  this  same  hour,  through  all  the  ages  since, 
Lone  wanderers  amid  like  solitude 
Have  mused  with  holy  thought  as  he  did  then  ? 
There  is  an  influence  uttered  not,  but  strong, 
That  Nature  doth  shed  forth  to  win  men  now, 
And  they  do  yield  to  it,  yet  knowing  not 
The  softened  fetters  nor  the  leading  hand. 
I  tread  not  the  green  fields,  but  on  the  brink 
Of  the  steep  shore,  beside  the  river's  flood, 
I  sit  me  down  alone.     The  many  winds 
That  play  by  day  and  night  o'er  this  expanse, 
All  are  departed — leaving  the  wide  plain 
Smooth  as  a  mirror.     In  the  distant  west 


EVENTIDE.  37 

The  sun  goes  down  ;  his  brightest  rays  are  gone, 
And  clouds  that  did  receive  him  passing  through 
With  gorgeous  colors,  faded  once  again, 
Deepen  in  purple  as  he  far  descends. 
But,  scattered  through  the  heaven  outspread  above, 
Lone,  loftier  clouds  still  catch  the  crimson  tints 
And  cast  their  shadows  in  the  tide  below. 
Look  at  the  scene !    That  purple  wall  again, 
Built  'gainst  the  west,  inverted  now  we  see. 
Those  forests  that  the  opposite  shore  do  fringe 
Are  doubled,  each  tree  spreading  dark  beneath ; 
While  over  all  the  glassy  surface  spread 
At  intervals,  the  red  clouds  of  the  sky 
Are  pictured,  yet  more  soft,  deep — deep  below ! 
The  heavens  grow  dark — between  those  crimson  spots 
The  answ'ring  waters  blacken,  and  the  stars, 
Just  shown  above,  I  see  relighted  there. 
Oh  beautiful !     Can  I  no  farther  reach  ? 
Often  thus  far  I've  come  and  looked  upon 
The  works  spread  round  me,  till  they  filled  my  soul, 
And  every  capable  sense  it  doth  contain, 
With  the  acknowledgment  of  nature's  charms. 
But  ever  with  them  seems  to  come  a  bar — 
A  barrier  to  some  farther  sought  advance. 
They  are  most  beautiful,  yet  they  impart 
4 


38  EVENTIDE. 

No  other  speech  to  me,  no  larger  being ! 
I  pause  upon  the  brink  of  the  beyond, 
And  am  not  satisfied !     My  soul  still  thirsts 
For  something  more.     As  far  as  they  extend 
"Pis  well,  and  fills  me  with  a  deep  delight, 
Yet  that  which  whets  the  spirit's  appetite 
Not  satisfies  its  hunger !     Ah,  my  soul, 
Be  thou  content  to  learn  what  this  would  teach. 

• 

Nature  is  not  thy  God.     It  holdeth  not 

The  final  good,  yet  coming  from  God's  hand 

Would  win  us  to  him.     It  is  not  prepared 

To  take  the  place  which  He  alone  can  fill 

Upon  the  heart's  yet  vacant  throne  of  love : 

Nor  are  the  charms  so  thick  about  thee  spread 

That  whereon  thou  must  feed !     Toil  is  thy  lot, 

Labor  thy  portion,     llest  nor  pleasure  here, 

From  any  visible  nor  from  unseen  things 

Can  be  thine  occupation  clothed  in  clsry ; 

But  in  the  intervals  between  the  toils 

And  stern  tasks  of  thine  upward  pilgrimage, 

Nature,  with  all  the  viewless,  beauteous  acts 

And  works  of  the  Creator,  are  to  help 

As  glimpses — springs  of  water  by  the  way, 

That  lead  toward  the  great  river,  tasting  faint 

Of  that  pure  Stream  of  Life  I     When  then,  beguiled 


EVENTIDE.  39 

With  these  beginnings  of  that  final  draught, 

Thou  treadest  now  no  more  the  path  of  toil, 

But  seekest  here  to  linger  and  draw  forth 

The  soul's  full  cup  of  bliss — the  stream  so  sweet 

For  its  true  purpose,  stagnates  to  thy  taste ! 

Nature,  however  woo'd  or  looked  upon, 

Will  yield  but  that  for  which  she  hath  been  sent. 

I  have,  then,  too  much  sought  to  fill  my  mouth 

With  fruits  plucked  from  her — in  those  shaded  bowers 

Meant  to  refresh,  I  have  made  my  abode, 

And  so  I  find,  by  wisdom's  ordered  rule 

Which  may  not  bend  for  me,  that  her  delights, 

Bather  than  adding  more  unto  their  store, 

Have  lost  of  what  was  at  the  first  their  bulk. 


UNLAWFUL   AFFECTIONS. 

WHAT  weapon  wilt  thou  forge  against  his  peace 
Who  thinketh  that  within  one  wedded  heart, 
And  the  sweet  circle  of  his  little  ones, 
Are  fortressed  safe  his  duty  and  his  love? 
Thy  enemy,  my  soul,  has  darts  that  reach 
Virtue  though  she  seem  lifted  in  her  seat 
Almost  to  Heaven.     He  can  charm  the  eye 
To  look  upon  a  new,  strange  face  or  form, 
Or  listen  to  some  voice,  till  in  thee  roused 
Are  the  beginnings  of  another  love, 
Hidden,  yet  in  bad  power  upspringing  there. 
Thou  coverest  it  in  secret  till  thy  glance 
Is  noted  and  returned.     The  Devil  looks 
And  smiles  as  lighteth  up  the  guilty  flame ! 
Then  followeth  unseen,  and  in  lone  hours 
Suggests  to  each  thoughts  of  the  other's  love. 
Not  so  much  thou,  he  saith,  the  other  most 


UNLAWFUL  AFFECTIONS.  41 

Enamored  looks  on  thee.     Thou  goest  forth, 

Thine  eye  doth  sift  the  crowd ;  or,  when  ye  meet, 

Glance  from  swift-seeking  glance  recoils  in  shame. 

No  word  hath  uttered  been — the  evil  thought 

Frames  for  its  like,  mute  language  of  its  own. 

Soon  thou  shalt  find  the  heart  which  holds  in  pledge 

All  thine  hath  of  affection — which,  till  now, 

Was  the  enthroned  one — seems  stripped  of  its  charms. 

Conscience,  in  weak  attempt,  may  summon  up 

A  goodly  train  to  plead  for  it — long  years 

Of  faithfulness  that  never  swerved ;  sweet  traits 

And  virtues,  that  like  flowers  bloomed  'neath  the  eye, 

All  clust'ring  round  a  deathless  love  for  thee — 

But  they  have  lost  their  power ;  the  goodly  forms 

Seem  hollow ;  while  by  them  led  blinded  thus 

One  whose  regard  is  sin  appears  more  fair. 

Next  thou  shalt  feel  the  poison  eating  in 

One  vital  more.     The  kiss  thou  plantest  on 

Thy  young  child's  cheek,  when   thou  hast  smoothed 

his  couch, 

Shall  not  hold  all  it  did — a  wintry  breath 
Shall  seem  to  wither  it  and  make  it  cold ! 
Before  this  thoughts,  that  ere  thy  tongue  might  tell, 
It  should  be  plucked  forth  by  the  roots,  have  passed, 
Like  murd'rers,  through  thy  mind — lust's  whisperings 

4* 


42  UNLAWFUL  AFFECTIONS. 

Of  what  thou  would'st  do  if  but  once  more  free. 
Hell  thickens  in  thy  heart !  and  now  (if  still 
Thy  foot  is  on  the  Eock  that  checks  her  flood), 
Thou  wilt  behold  how  yawn  and  gape  her  waves 
To  overwhelm  thee;  the  enormity 
Of  thy  deep  guilt — thy  nature's  helplessness, 
Will  unfold — and  appalled,  thou  shalt  be  dumb ! 

Moor  thy  bark  by  the  unforbidden  shore, 

And  there  abide.     Be  tempted  not  to  roam 

From  that  fair  portion  God  hath  given  thee, 

Through  treacherous  seas  for  fancied  climes  unknown. 

By  a  kind  hand  encouraged,  thine  own  fields 

Shall  yield  thee  fruits  of  peace.    There  shall  thy  lot 

Eise  to  its  height,  and  loftiest  privilege. 

But  leaving  it,  weeds  soon  shall  choke  its  soil ; 

While  from  that  place  thou  seek'st,  led  by  a  curse, 

Thou  shalt  look  back  as  one  who  weeps  for  home. 


AMBITION. 

WHY  should  I  serve  thee,  when  I  know  so  well 
Thy  promises  are  ne'er  fulfilled  ?     No  cheat 
Or  low  impostor  comes  to  me  more  bare 
Of  that  on  which  we  would  rest  our  belief 
Than  thou — not  only  to  my  sight  disclosed 
By  mine  own  losses,  but  those  who  have  worn 
Thy  yoke  the  longest,  and  received  of  thee 
Thy  richest  gifts,  declare  them  dross  and  poor. 
Yet  do  I  find  so  keen  an  appetite 
For  thy  most  empty  banquet,  that  I  still 
Hunt  round  thy  table  for  its  meanest  crumbs. 

We  do  thee  homage  in  our  daily  walks, 
Ordering  our  dress  and  gait  as  to  thy  whim. 
When  we  would  speak  for  but  the  interchange 
Of  casual  thought,  if  there  be  listeners  near, 
At  thy  command,  we  measure  every  word. 


44  AMBITION. 

If  we  sit  silent,  yet  beneath  some  eye 
Kegarding  us,  then  doth  our  care  adjust 
Each  fold  and  feature,  lest  it  thee  offend. 
Within  the  house  of  prayer,  while  we  do  kneel, 
If  not  supreme,  thou  second  art  in  power, 
Abating  from  the  heart  thought  of  the  flesh. 
But  when  it  cometh  to  life's  chosen  task, 
Changing  its  purpose  and  its  true  design, 
For  thee  we  bear  the  burden — put  at  risk 
All  God  hath  loaned  us  to  be  used  for  Him, 
And  pay  a  price  to  be  enrolled  thy  slaves ! 

Where  dost  thou  sit  enthroned  ?  What  secret  power 

Is  this  of  thine  that  doth  throughout  prevail 

All  heights — all  depths  unto  our  being's  end  ? 

It  takes  a  tithe  of  virtue ;  to  its  aim 

Turneth  each  vice,  uniting  to  one  draught 

What  were  abhorrent  on  another  road. 

It  is  my  close  companion — to  the  gate 

Of  Heaven  it  lurketh  after  when  I  soar, 

Or  by  the  doors  of  Hell,  gone  on  before, 

It  stands  and  beckons  when  I  do  descend. 

I  cannot  be  alone !    The  silent  path 

Of  the  mid-forest,  where  no  foot  doth  tread 

But  softly  mine,  or  the  close  bolted  room 


AMBITION.  45 

Alike  do,  as  I  enter,  let  it  in. 

Oh !  subtle  foe,  who  now  I  rather  give 

Thy  humbler,  truer  name,  Self-Love,  by  thee 

How  many  wounds  I  have,  and  how  great  loss ! 

I  may  not  reach  thee.     Can  I  separate 

From  my  full  mind  its  Memory  ?  or  at  will 

Pluck  from  Imagination  her  swift  wings  ? 

So  am  I  helpless  'midst  a  guilty  soul. 

If  I  can  bind  ambition,  why  not  pierce 

The  sack  of  hatred's  venom?  or  cut  off 

The  talons  keen  of  covetousness  ?     Try 

To  raise  a  dam  and  boundary  between 

The  sense  of  beauty  and  the  evil  eye ! 

Enchurch  affection — call  the  raven  back 

When  it  hath  left  the  ark,  gone  to  and  fro ! 

Sweep  out  each  dusty  spot  within  my  soul, 

And  there,  henceforth,  be  pure — let  not  the  thought 

Nor  secret  act  be  to  the  test  unclean ! 

I  may  not  conquer  them — they  separate, 

Have  power  and  strong  dominion  over  me ; 

Yet  is  there  not  one  that  delights  to  roam 

This  bosom,  but  my  Father  holds  its  chain ! 


TIME. 

TIME  holdeth  all  things.     As  the  boundless  sea 
Somewhere  within  its  limits  doth  contain 
Each  of  the  myriad  forms  there  made  to  dwell, 
So  past,  or  here,  or  yet  to  come,  all  acts — 
All  deeds  and  strange  events — adjusted  are 
Each  to  its  fitting  hour !    We  look  upon 
The  smallest  fragment  of  the  mighty  bulk — 
One  little  point  in  the  unmeasured  plain, 
And  are  consumed  with  care.     What  scope  is  His 
Who  measureth  from  the  threshold  to  the  end 
By  but  one  glance ! 

We  are  as  busy  ants, 

Each  lab'ring  with  his  atom !     The  next  field 
Is  unknown — like  another  world  to  us. 
By  our  finite  capacities  we  fall 
To  our  just  place;  for  though  at  times  we  rise 
Above  the  level,  and  have  wider  view, 


TIME.  47 

Looking  by  History  back,  and  sending  thought 

On  an  uncertain  pilgrimage  before, 

Yet  soon  we  drop  again,  and  the  great  sum 

Of  these  swift  moments  are  spent  'midst  research 

Or  toils,  which,  by  the  bound'ries  they  embrace, 

Are  of  minutest  compass. 

Time  doth  hide 

All  secrets.     It  can  trace  thy  lineage  back — 
Back  to  fair  Eden !    Kings  are  in  the  line 
That  is  obliterated  from  thy  view, 
But  marked  out  on  that  page.     Time  too  can  tell 
When  thou  shalt  pass  its  borders,  and  name  where 
Thy  dust  shall  lie.     Upon  its  record  writ 
Are  thy  descendants  to  remotest  years. 
How  many  deeds  of  good  and  evil  there 
Shall  live,  unblotted  out !     Methinks  the  page 
Where  they  are  graven,  is  not  one,  but  lined 
To  right  and  left.     All  issuing  of  thy  heart, 
From  the  great  deed  down  to  the  love  that  brings 
A  cup  of  water,  in  the  fear  of  God, 
Hath  honorable  place ;  while  where  thou  hast" 
From  thy  youth  up  served  Sin,  the  tainted  thought, 
Acted  or  not,  is  visibly  impressed. 
As  the  secreted  lantern  falls  upon 
The  painted  passing  figures  and  depicts 


48  TIME. 

'Gainst  the  dark  wall,  them  made  more  bright  and  plain, 
So  all  the  hidden  motions  of  the  mind 
Fall  pictured  on  that  tablet — not  to  fade 
As  fleeting  shadows,  but  to  be  reviewed 
On  the  great  Judgment  day ! 


TEMPEE. 

AN  evil  Temper  I     Seek  me  out  some  form 
More  hideous  to  behold  than  aught  displayed 
By  nature  'midst  the  countless  visible  shapes 
Which  she  hath  placed  on  earth,  and  I  will  show 
That  evil  spirit's  likeness.     Yet  must  it 
No  feature  wear  that  e'er  expression  gives 
To  gentleness  or  mercy.     It  must  be 
Of  visage  that  doth  fiercely  manifest 
Unmixed  malignity.     But  there  is  not 
That  having  substance,  of  so  sour  a  face 
We  may  compare  it  to.     It  dwells  within, 
A  subtle  tenant  of  the  mind.    The  flesh 
Is  marred  by  it,  yet  hath  it  separate  life — 
'Tis  still  immortal  when  the  flesh  is  dust. 
How  can  I  speak  of  it  ?     "What  matter  fails 
In  its  most  loathsome  aspect  to  show  forth 
How  shall  I  paint  in  words  ?     I  saw  a  child 
Clothed  in  the  thin  worn  raiment  of  the  poor ; 
Her  head  was  covered  not,  her  feet  were  bare, 
5 


50  TEMPER. 

And  thus  she  sat  beneath  the  open  sky 

Of  a  chill,  wintry  day.     At  distance  stood 

The  lowly  dwelling,  which  as  for  her  sake 

I  would  have  sought,  she  caught  me  with  her  arms, 

Her  little  arms,  and  wept  and  begged  me  stay. 

It  was  this  spirit  in  a  father's  breast 

That  drove  her  forth,  that  let  her  pinch  with  cold, 

That  made  her  trembling  look  at  her  home's  door 

As  though  a  lion  lurked  within ! 

My  heart, 

Oh,  dost  thou  house  this  foul  inhabitant, 
So  loathed  in  others  ?     Dost  thou  entertain 
What  would  between  thine  offspring  and  the  place 
Of  thy  affections  lay  a  naked  sword  ? 
Confess,  my  heart,  it  dwells  within  thy  doors — 
Yea,  in  thy  chiefest  chambers !    From  the  throne 
It  doth  at  times  drag  sovereign  virtue  down 
That  it  may  rave  at  will.     Strong  is  its  arm, 
And  cruel  are  its  shafts — when  it  doth  speak 
It  lacerates — the  sore  wound  of  one  word 
Bleedeth  for  years.     Oh,  wretched  tyranny 
Beneath  which  I  am  born  as  much  as  he 
Who  is  its  abject  captive !     Yet  in  this 
I  am  more  blessed  than  such  an  one — I  know 
Who  holds  the  tyrant's  fetters,  and  to  Him 
Daily  approach,  nor  come  unheard  away. 


THE    WEIGHT. 

WELL  is  life  likened  to  a  most  swift  race, 

And  we  to  burden  bearers,  or  to  those 

Who  loaded  climb  some  hill.     Each  hath  his  weight 

That  holds  him  back,  and  as  he  casts  it  off 

Another  clings  with  firmer  hold.     The  fight, 

If  it  be  not  without,  rageth  within. 

If  not  an  arm  of  flesh  doth  drag  thee  down, 

One  unseen  grasps  thy  shoulder  day  by  day. 

Always  there  is  temptation.     'Tis  the  growth 

Spontaneous  of  the  ground  on  which  we  tread ; 

It  doth  pervade  the  atmosphere  we  breathe  ; 

The  heart  hails  it,  and  as  it  comes  makes  room. 

Yet  is  there  even  'neath  its  tainted  touch 

A  patience  to  attain ;  not  that  which  bids 

It  welcome  to  the  breast,  or  ever  rests 

In  strife  against  it,  but  which  doth  ward  off 

Discouragement,  and  'gainst  our  lot  complaint. 


52  THE   WEIGHT. 

Infirmity  is  loss,  and  yet  by  it 

The  Christian  hath  his  gain.     Cure  my  disease, 

And  my  Physician  will  return  no  more. 

There  is  an  envious  captive  in  rny  mind, 

Or  shall  I  call  it  ruler  ?     Surely  not 

The  highest  throne  it  fills  there,  yet  its  seat 

Is  not  unclothed  of  power.     If  I  flee, 

I  bear  it  with  me — silent  if  I  sit, 

I  do  but  give  it  rest.     No  strength  of  mine 

Can  cast  it  out ;  and  He  on  whom  I  call, 

Permitting  still  its  presence,  only  saith, 

My  grace  sumceth  for  thee.     Give  me,  Lord, 

That  grace,  and  while  thy  purpose  holds  me  here, 

Teach  me  how  with  corruption  to  abide, 

Nor  loving  it,  nor  murmuring — but  with  hope 

So  much  more  ardent,  longing  to  be  free. 


THE   NECESSITY   OF   FAITH. 


are  hemmed  in  by  possibilities 
Of  so  great  evil,  that  without  a  trust 
In  One  whose  sway  doth  overreach  them  all, 
Our  minds  would  be  companioned  but  with  fears. 
My  body,  hale  to-day,  may  soon  become 
The  lodgement  of  some  most  abhorred  disease. 
My  intellect,  now  in  its  many  parts 
Laid  like  the  atoms  of  transparent  glass, 
Each  in  its  place,  but  one  in  harmony, 
May  by  some  shock  be  so  disquieted 
That,  order  and  all  just  proportion  gone, 
Darkness  shall  fill  the  room  and  place  of  light. 
There  is  not  one  possession  of  my  joy 
But  as  it  is  the  more  beloved  as  such, 
May  so  be  changed  into  a  heavier  woe  ! 
The  currents  that  bring  joy  and  sorrow  down 
Are  viewless,  unknown,  and  beyond  our  reach. 
5* 


54  THE   NECESSITY  OF   FAITH. 

How  could  we  live  and  bear  the  consciousnes3 

That  it  is  thus,  'midst  quiet  smiling  peace, 

If  we  held  not  this  firm  persuasion  safe, 

That  not  by  chance  these  currents  ebb  and  flow, 

But  as  poured  forth  or  held  back  by  the  hand 

Of  One  whose  wisdom  compasseth  our  fate — 

Who  better  knows  our  need?     From  day  to  day, 

Save  but  for  this,  shut  in  the  dark  I  go, 

With  treasures  both  to  forfeit  and  to  gain ; 

Yet  never  fearful  save  when  letting  slip 

This  sweet  belief,  I  trust  in  mine  own  strength. 

Then  am  I  tost  and  sore  disquieted, 

Seeing  how  great  my  hazard,  and  how  weak 

I  am  to  combat,  o'errule  or  defend ! 


SELF-ACQUAINTANCE. 

THAT  spirit  lodged  within  us,  which  we  bear 
Where'er  our  steps  do  lead — oft  seems  most  like 
The  hedge  of  thorns  that  seizes  on  and  robs 
Some  fragment  from  his  garment  who  goes  by. 
Or  the  rough-coated,  surly  porcupine, 
We  may  compare  it  to,  who  lifts  his  quills, 
And  as  the  fable  hath  it,  casts  one  out 
At  each  offender  near  him.     I  go  forth 
On  the  great  highway,  or  am  mingled  with 
The  housed,  refined  assembly.     Presently 
I  see  one  whose  heart,  gauged  upon  his  face, 
Feeds  but  on  his  own  beauty  (though  that  be 
Nowhere  but  in  his  thought).     Quickly  spring  up 
Bristling  contempt  and  scorn,  which,  if  indulged, 
Would  make  public  confession. 

Next  draws  near 
Some  stiff  form  and  cold  frigid  countenance 


56  SELF-ACQUAINTANCE. 

That  looks  defiant  pride.    As  swift  awakes 

Incipient  hatred  in  my  breast — my  eye 

Seeks  out  its  glance,  its  hauteur  to  hurl  back ! 

These  both  passed  by,  another  I  behold, 

In  the  coarse  sensualist,  whose  roving  glance 

Scans  all  within  its  reach.     Toward  him  go  forth 

Loathing  and  keen  abhorrence !     But  now  comes 

In  my  own  heart  some  viewless  visitor 

Who  straightway  falls  to  quest'ning  me.     He  saith, 

How  dost  thou  know  so  well  the  dress  and  garb 

Of  these  masked,  hateful  things  ?   Hast  thou  felt  pride, 

And  vanity,  and  passion  ?    Else  who  taught 

Thine  eye  its  quick  discernment  ?    Not  the  cell 

Without,  the  inward  culprit  stands  condemned. 

Come,  then — before  these  round  thee  for  one  day 

Unveil  thy  bosom !    For  one  fleeting  day — 

It  is  a  little  while !    Let  them  behold 

Each  secret  thought,  tracking  it  to  the  depths — 

Each  image  cherished,  or  those  thou  wouldst  drive 

Unwelcomed  quickly  hence.     I  answer  make, 

Shall  I  to  such  a  multitude  lay  bare 

Those  locked  and  hidden  chambers  ?    He  replies, 

Are  here  too  many  ?    I  will  separate 

A  few  from  out  their  midst — those  who  look  through 

The  most  clear  glass  of  charity — let  them 


SELF-ACQUAINTANCE.  57 

Apart  and  privily  see  tins  sight.     I  say, 
Shall  we  to  strangers  take  the  covering  off 
From  our  heart's  buried  treasures  ?    Then  he  saith, 
Naffie  that  one  whom  thou  lovest  most  on  earth, 
And  who  most  loveth  thee — let  him  draw  near, 
And  for  the  span-long  period  of  one  day 
Stand  sentinel  o'er  thy  bosom.     I  cry  out-, 
Trembling,  Spare  me  this  thing !    Yea,  I  will  spare, 
He  saith,  but  learn  while  thou  mayst  reprobate 
Sin  in  itself,  he  whom  thou  wouldst  condemn 
Doth  stand  on  thine  own  level.     In  the  soil 
Of  thine  own  heart  lays  every  bitter  root, 
Eeady  to  spring  up,  that  bears  fruit  in  him : 
They  may  yet  bud  and  bloom  there,  and  if  now 
They  are  restrained,  the  difference  is  of  grace. 


DISCOURAGEMENT   TO   LABOR. 

I  CALL,  but  no  form  riseth  in  reply ; 
I  stand  above  th'  invisible  recess 
Where  dwells  the  mind  and  whence  her  children  come- 
But  it  is  silent  as  if  now  her  grave! 
And  thus  it  often  seemeth.     All  the  shapes 
Of  vigorous  life  that  do  at  times  crowd  hence, 
Retreated  back  so  far  into  the  depths, 
That  the  strange  faculty  so  lately  mine 
To  draw  them  forth,  is  as  forever  gone. 
Then  in  what  poverty  and  loneliness 
The  poet  sits  above  his  unstained  sheet, 
And  doubts  instead  of  images  do  throng, 
Doubts  whether  he  shall  e'er  again  behold 
The  trains  of  Fancy !    But  a  certain  law, 
As  with  the  frame  of  nature  seen  without, 
Exists  too  in  our  spirits.     But  for  this 
How  should  we  know,  when  silently  at  eve 


DISCOURAGEMENT  TO   LABOR.  59 

The  sun  departs,  that  e'er  returning  morn 
"Would  summon  us  to  life  and  toil  again  ? 
Or  that  our  faculties,  changed  day  by  day, 
Fidkle,  unstable — would  come  at  our  call, 
In  humor  clothed  to  end  the  task  begun  ? 
Therefore  hath  He,  who  with  one  ruling  hand, 
Fashioned  both  flesh  and  spirit,  compassed  both 
With  fixed  results  which  give  us  assured  faith : 
And  when,  in  answer  to  the  just  attempt, 
Success  doth  cheer  me,  and  repeated  oft 
Th'  endeavor,  still  it  yields  the  same  reward, 
I  may  lean  on  the  hope  and  firmly  trust 
That  as  return  the  future's  stern  demands, 
So  shall  be  mine  the  strength  that  serves  its  need. 

Choose  then  thy  task,  not  by  ambition  named, 
Nor  fancied  pref 'rence,  but  by  patient  search, 
Whether  the  cunning  hand,  the  diligent  mind, 
Or  whatsoever  gift,  is  left  with  thee. 
But  know  this,  that  where'er  the  field  is  spread, 
'Twill  often  seem  unfruitful.     Yet  toil  there, 
For  thus  it  is  with  all.     The  highest  place 
As  that  which  we  deem  lowest,  is  beset 
"With  like  discouragements  to  the  true  act 
Of  labor  and  th'  attainment  of  success. 


60  DISCOURAGEMENT  TO   LABOR. 

Through  like  experience  all  the  harvest  reap, 
Which  by  a  law  ordained  alike  for  all, 
(Though  it  may  once  perchance  spring  up  unsought), 
Is  year  by  year  gained,  but  through  weariness ! 


THE   DKEAD    OF   OUK   TASK. 

IT  is  not  that  we  so  abhor  and  shun 
The  effort,  or  that  so  we  treasure  ease — 
For  rest  prolonged  is  weariness — it  is 
The  dread  of  being  vanquished  in  the  strife, 
And  after  conflict  waged  amid  suspense, 
Effecting  nothing.     This  so  weakens  faith 
In  faculties  which  oftenest  had  won, 
That  we  do  shrink  from  the  unproved  attempt. 
Yet  flattery  of  self,  or  undue  trust 
In  powers  that  answer  not  at  times  our  call, 
Unfits  as  much  for  life's  prolonged  task 
As  weak'ning  failure.     It  doth  weave  twofold 
The  fetters  of  discouragement,  for  where, 
O'er  confident,  we  saw  but  victory, 
Defeat  will  rob  us  both  of  present  strength 
And  courage  for  th'  attack  which  yet  might  win. 
6 


62  THE   DREAD   OF   OUR   TASK. 

We  nurse  in  our  own  bosoms — as  it  were 

Between  our  casual  thought  and  deeper  mind — 

A  secret  vanity.    It  would  exalt 

That  mind  beyond  the  doubt  that  waits  upon 

All  human  effort,  and  would  rather  crown 

It  as  a  power  of  some  loftier  sphere 

Which  stoops  for  man's  applause,  and  which,  aroused 

To  the  true  effort,  always  wins  success. 

How  empty  the  delusion !    Deeply  tinged 

With  earth,  the  mightiest  streams  are,  flowing  here ; 

Those  fields  most  fruitful,  quickest  send  up  weeds, 

And  in  the  harvests  of  the  intellect 

No  husbandman  but  reaps  his  mingled  store. 

He  garners  not  at  large  the  golden  sheaves, 

But  winnows  out  with  toil  the  scanty  fruit. 


THE   HOPE   OF  HEAVEN. 

'Tis  better  to  depart!     Thus  was  it  said 

By  one  who  wisdom  drew  from  a  high  source, 

And  so  unnumbered  hearts  that  daily  drank 

At  the  same  Fount,  have  said  since  he  was  gone. 

They  too,  each  in  his  turn,  have  been  released ; 

Still  is  it  heard  on  earth,  and  last  from  me, 

'Tis  better  to  depart !     Why  is  it  so  ? 

Is  not  health  mine  ?     Do  not  endearing  ties 

Wrap  round  in  many  a  fold  to  bind  me  here  ? 

Have  I  not  what  is  oftenest  denied, 

Nor  poverty,  nor  riches — not  th'  excess 

Of  freedom,  nor  the  tyranny  of  want  ? 

Yes,  and  great  store  beside  of  many  things 

That  smooths  man's  path,  and  do  adorn  his  lot, 

Are  given  me — yet  midst  them  all  I  feel 

'Tis  better  to  depart !     Oh,  there  is  not 

One  duty  fully  done !     No  evil  wish 


64  THE   HOPE   OF   HEAVEN. 

Is  thwarted  quite,  both  in  the  thought  and  deed. 
In  each  relation  that  unites  me  here, 
Close  or  more  distant,  with  my  fellow  man, 
I  do  come  short  or  o'erstep  duty's  mark. 
My  evil  things  are  unmixed,  and  my  good 
Are  tainted — so  beneath  Sin's  heavy  load 
I  journey  on  amid  this  clouded  scene. 
Then,  when  beside  my  path,  shown  to  my  heart 
That  better  land  doth,  dimly  pictured,  rise, 
Whither  Christ's  flock  is  tending — there  to  lose 
Each  clinging  weight,  even  to  the  least — I  feel 
'Tis  better  to  depart ! 

But  this  is  not 

God's  plan.     It  was  no  part  of  his  design 
That  I  should  spend  this  day  in  heaven,  or  wear 
To-day  the  glorious  dress.     I  am  still  here — 
Some  work  remained  undone  when  rose  this  morn. 
And  this  shall  be  my  constant  thought — not  yet, 
It  is  not  yet  the  time !     But  is  there  not 
In  the  sure  expectation  of  a  thing, 
Though  we  do  linger  still  a  busy  hour, 
Ere  we  depart  for  it,  foretasted  joy  ? 
Is  it  as  nothing  nightly  to  lie  down, 
And  feel,  while  shuts  the  eye,  that  not  a  fear 


THE    HOPE   OF   HEAVEN.  65 

Floats  as  a  cloud  before  the  Judgment  Throne  ? 

Shall  I  forget,  nor  count  it  in  the  sum, 

That  Panoply  in  which  I  do  walk  clothed, 

By  which  I  look  within  this  bound-up  frame, 

And  to  the  beating  heart  say,  No  keen  pang 

Of  thine  can  me  alarm ;  to  every  part, 

Each  vital,  delicate  organ,  None  of  you, 

Though  pierced  with  swift  disease,  can  work  my  fall  ? 

Yea,  these  are  gifts  that  should  make  what  remains 

Of  life  a  pleasant  waiting  ! 


NATURE. 

A  FROG  upon  the  margin  of  a  spring ! 
Part  of  the  furniture  by  Nature  placed 
To  quite  complete  this  still,  inanimate  scene. 
What  sentiment,  thou  green  and  croaking  thing, 
Can  I  now  gather  from  thy  panting  form  ? 
If  thou  couldst  tell  thy  history,  no  lack 
Of  subject  would  there  be,  lone  sentinel ! 
Here  is  a  world  we  think  not  of.     From  here — 
This  little  fount — this  basin  ever  full — 
How  many  draw  new  life  up  day  by  day  ? 
The  tortoise  comes  here,  pauses  on  the  brink, 
And  drinks — in  that  one  necessary  act 
Perfect  by  instinct  as  we  are  by  thought. 
What  small  proportion  of  full  rational  thought 
Is  in  the  impulse  which  doth  it  impel 
To  turn,  amid  the  far  off  furrowed  field, 
And  truly,  by  an  unmarked  lowly  path, 


NATURE. 

Seek  the  wet  margin  of  this  hidden  spring? 
The  infinite  irradiations  sent 
Of  intellect  through  all  the  countless  ranks 
And  orders  of  his  creatures,  God  doth  know, 
And  He  alone  the  measure  marks  of  each. 

Now,  while  I  stand  beneath  the  shade,  methinks 
This  is  misnamed  a  silent  solitude ; 
For  countless  voices  from  the  mossy  ground 
Rise  up  around  me — not  the  din  of  trade, 
But  the  loud  humming  of  the  insect  world, 
As  busy  here  as  man  is  where  he  dwells. 
Hark,  from  the  trees !  birds  to  each  other  call, 
And,  though  they  know  it  not,  carol  to  me. 
Far  as  my  eye  can  through  the  forest  reach, 
I  see  bright  beams  from  the  meridian  sun 
Fall  here  and  there  between  the  parted  boughs, 
Check'ring  the  green  and  pathless  floor  beneath. 

Often,  when  pent  within  the  city's  walls, 
And  scenes  like  this  have  risen  in  my  thought, 
I  have  believed  that,  could  I  thus  but  stand 
Free  amid  nature  and  her  outspread  works, 
My  thirst  were  satisfied.     I  stand  there  now — 
The  visible  reality  more  full 


68  NATURE. 

Of  beauty  than  the  unreal  picture  was. 
Am  I  then  satisfied,  and  is  that  thirst 
For  something  yet  untasted  quenched  within  ? 
Oh,  no !  the  Stream  I  parch  for  flows  not  here ! 
Why  do  I  cheat  myself  and  promise  still 
My  heart  this  comfort  ?  yet  not  all  deceived, 
For  well  I  know,  as  to  my  final  faith, 
And  those  last  joys  which  only  can  be  full, 
That  heaven  alone  shall  yield  them.     Still  I  find 
From  day  to  day,  as  on  life's  path  I  go, 
Impatient  to  have  nothing,  that  I  look 
For  some  repose  at  each  turn  of  the  way, 
And  so  reap  disappointment.    Better  far, 
Both  for  the  sake  of  duty  and  content, 
To  tell  my  heart,  and  crown  it  with  belief, 
That  here  it  hath  no  portion,  but  must  go 
Stripped,  save  of  hope,  unto  the  journey's  end. 

And  yet,  oh !   Nature,  did  He  not  spread  forth 
Thy  fair  green  fields,  and  rear  thy  mountains  up, 
"Who  placed  within  us  the  discerning  mind 
To  see  their  beauties  ?  Did  He  thee  adorn, 
And  give  us  eye,  and  ear,  and  answering  sense, 
To  feel  delight  when  looking  in  thy  face, 


NATURE.  69 

That  this  sweet  harmony  between  us  both 
Should  be  but  void  and  empty  ? 

Thou  lookest  on  some  fragment  of  the  Past — 
Some  carved  sarcophagus  which  hid  hath  lain, 
Covered  up,  unknown  for  a  thousand  years ; 
And  the  dim  fancies  that  around  it  throng — 
Fictions  upsurnmoned  but  from  thine  own  brain, 
Give  it  an  interest.     But  when,  in  thy  search 
Through  all  its  parts,  the  closer  scrutiny 
Keveals  some  strange  inscription  that  doth  tell 
Who  laid  there  in  his  ancient  sleep  of  death,  : 
Giving  the  name  and  lineage  of  a  king — 
How  doth  that  interest  deepen  into  awe!  ; 

Thus  once  I  walked  beside  a  murmuring  brook 

In  early  youth  (I  know  the  stream  yet  well, 

And  where  far  through  a  wooded  glen  it  winds), 

Feeling  a  consciousness  of  strange  delight 

Indefinite,  such  as  I  could  not  speak 

The  nature  of,  nor  the  source  whence  it  sprang. 

Yet  as  I  followed  on  its  grassy  brink, 

Noting  its  falls  and  eddies — leaping  now 

Across  its  bosom  to  the  firmer  side — 

Now  sitting  down  beneath  some  spreading  tree, 


70  NATURE. 

Gazing  and  listening  to  its  gentle  song, 

There  was  imparted  to  my  childish  soul 

A  sense  of  .beauty  and  a  real  joy. 

This  was  the  first  touch  of  that  answering  chord 

Placed  in  my  bosom — the  first  opening 

Of  that  perception  which  notes  nature's  charms  1 

But  as  I  grew,  and  this  instinctive  sense 

Deepened  with  years,  it  was  made  known  to  me 

That  all  these  charms  were  fashioned  by  the  hand 

Of  one  who  loved  me ;  and  that  Nature  stood 

Robed  as  she  was,  not  to  embody  forth 

Some  unknown  God,  some  dim  unformed  belief 

That  we,  kept  back  from  any  near  approach, 

Should  darkly  worship  her,  or  Him  in  her ; 

But  wrought  out  by  God's  hand  veiled  from  my  sight, 

To  witness  of  his  present  power  and  love. 

As  thou  wouldst  walk  amid  mementos  spread 

From  one  beloved,  yet  hidden  from  thine  eyes, 

So  walk  I  amid  nature !  and  if  now, 

After  a  circling  pilgrimage  of  years, 

My  steps  were  led  back  to  that  early  stream, 

Not  by  the  mind's  maturer  growth  alone, 

But  by-this  new  interpretation  given, 

Would  all  its  beauties  show  to  me  more  fair. 


THE    POET    TO    HIS    BOOK. 

Go  from  my  heart  forth,  wafted  to  and  fro, 

Seeking  a  resting-place !     A  wand'ring  voice 

That  whispers  in  the  ear  when  all  is  still, 

Or  as  a  viewless  hand  that  doth  reach  in, 

Touching  the  spirits'  chords !     If  thou  hast  power 

T'  awaken  there  one  glad,  resounding  note 

Of  gratitude  and  new  thanksgiving — Live ! 

But  if  thou  only  canst  defraud  the  soul 

Of  golden  moments,  yielding  no  return 

Of  wisdom  or  of  purified  desire, 

Then  be  thy  life  brief  as  a  falling  star, 

Even  though  as  beautiful!     Say  that  thou  com'st 

From  him  who  sends  thee,  not  demanding  fame, 

That  with  such  portion  thou  mayst  back  return 

To  yield  him  service — but  the  messenger 

Of  blessings  that  he  fain  with  all  would  share. 

As  he  who,  when  Spring  first  hides  in  the  wood, 

Beareth  the  cage  unto  the  forest's  edge, 

And  lets  his  winter  prisoners  go  free, 


72  THE    POET   TO   HIS   BOOK. 

That  they  may  seek  nests  where  to  rear  their  young, 

So  'midst  the  great  world  do  I  now  send  forth 

Thoughts  that  have  tarried  long — hoping  they  may 

Find  lodging-place  in  many  hearts,  and  rear 

Yet  holier  brood !     The  small  and  dwarfish  shoot, 

If  laid  in  richer  soil,  will  sometimes  lose 

Its  likeness  to  the  last  degenerate  stalk 

From  which  'twas  severed,  and  will  grow  again 

In  form  and  height  more  like  that  towering  plant 

From  which  it  first  descended.     Let  my  words 

Hold  but  the  lowest  office — ope  the  doors 

To  richer  treasures  not  my  own,  or  light 

With  their  faint  spark  an  all-surpassing  flame, 

So  that  they  some  way  do  impart  that  Hope 

In  which  they  have  their  being.     I  would  choose 

Eather  to  win  one  spirit — though  unknown 

To  it,  its  benefactor — than  to  have 

Plaudit  and  commendation  from  all  minds 

For  powers  most  rarely  given.    Yet  in  this 

I  am  most  selfish,  only  that  my  store 

Is  hoarded  in  another  world,  where  all 

That  must  remain  here  will,  I  know,  be  lost. 

Therefore,  as  doth  the  miser  hide  his  pence 

With  keener  relish  than  some  squander  gold, 

So  pass  I,  secretly  exulting,  now 

Great  riches,  for  one  mite  that  shall  endure ! 


THE    FAMILY    VAULT. 

HERE,  with  its  face  upturned,  the  mouldering  flesh 
Waiteth  the  Judgment.     Those  unpitying  cares 
Which  did  begrudge  it  once  a  moment's  rest, 
Fallen  on  other  shoulders,  or  gone  out — 
Nothing  when  lost  their  victim — reach  it  not. 
How  still  it  is !     Motionless,  side  by  side, 
The  leaden  coffins  that  each  form  inclose 
Lie  still  from  year  to  year.     I  knew  him  well 
Who  sleepeth  in  this  nearest  one. 

Lo,  what  company !     A  little  while, 
And  all  this  floor  was  empty.     Day  by  day, 
They  rose  up  and  laid  down  as  I  do  now; — 
They  mingled  with  each  other,  came  and  went, 
Loved,  and,  it  may  be,  harbored  other  thoughts, 
With  looks  estranged,  and  all  th'  unuttered,  mute, 
Yet  eloquent  intimations  from  the  mind 
Which  tell  the  bitter  feeling  ;  now  they  lie 
7 


74  THE   FAMILY   VAULT. 

Harmless  enough !     No  keen  or  kindly  word 

Comes  from  their  lips — ah,  the  few  years  they  passed 

In  life  together  were  a  little  space 

To  this  long,  still  companionship  of  death. 

Think  of  it,  oh,  my  soul !     Does  there  breathe  one 

1 

For  whom  thou  feelest  hatred,  not  confessed — 
Yet  hatred  traced  back  to  its  secret  source  ? 
Remember  how  ye  will  together  lie 
Thus  side  by  side ;  for  though  ye  slumber  not 
"Within  one  common  vault,  yet  it  will  be 

In  earth's  great  tomb  that  waits  for  all  mankind. 

• 

Am  I  prepared  to  take  my  lodging  here  ? 

Can  I  await  the  Resurrection  Morn, 

Bound  in  the  fetters  motionless  of  death, 

In  confidence  and  calm  abiding  hope  ? 

This  is  the  place  to  ask  such  question — here, 

The  world  shut  out,  and  each  poor  dazzled  sense 

Helped  to  look  inward  by  the  solemn  scene. 

I  trust,  then,  that  I  am.     Not  that  my  life 
Can  bear  the  sifting  and  the  scrutiny 
Which  shall  befall  it  on  the  Judgment  Day, 
But  that  the  impure  dress  which  covers  it, 
As  with  corruption,  to  th'  all-seeing  eye 
May  be  made  spotless !     In  my  consciousness, 


THE   FAMILY   VAULT.  75 

I  am  accused,  and  by  myself  condemned 

Of  every  sin.     There  is  no  evil  charge 

But  its  reflection  or  its  counterpart 

Is  laid  bare  by  a  glance  at  my  own  breast ; 

For  God  hath  torn  the  mask  of  pride  for  me, 

And  shown  me  what  I  am.     Not  with  the  sense 

Of  that  keen  horror  such  guilt  would  inflict 

Even  in  its  viewing,  to  a  soul  all  pure — 

Else  were  life  torture ;  but  he  hath  so  cleansed 

My  vision  that  I  see  what  once  was  hid, 

And  so  discern  its  deep  enormity 

That  in  some  measure  toward  my  spirit's  strength 

Sin  in  its  shape  and  nature  is  abhorred. 

Shall  this  new  sight,  then,  or  the  partial  change 

Which  it  doth  work  out  in  my  practices, 

Shield  me  from,  retribution  still  deserved  ? 

No,  this  is  not  my  plea ;  but  I  am  told 

By  Him  against  whom  all  my  error  is 

That  thus  confessing  it,  if  I  will  come 

A  suppliant  to  the  Cross,  the  blood  which  flows 

To  cleanse  the  penitent  shall  cleanse  e'en  me  ! 

With  nothing  more,  then,  than  this  Promise  armed, 
Conscious  of  Guilt — a  Judge  against  myself, 
T  stand  thus  fearless  in  the  gates  of  death. 


76  THE   FAMILY   VAULT. 

Here  is  the  couch  where  these  tired  limbs  shall  lie, 

And  moulder  in  corruption  !     No  kind  hand 

Shall  tend  them ;  all  forgotten  from  the  earth, 

As  these  around  are,  it  shall  be  with  me. 

One  eye  alone  shall  still  mine  image  keep, 

Nor  dimming  centuries  shall  blot  it  out, 

Till  when  the  trumpet  sounds,  uprisen  again, 

Awaked,  renewed,  I  shall  stand  at  His  Bar. 

Should  I  not  tremble  at  my  prophecy 

Here  in  the  place  where  it  shall  be  fulfilled  ? 

I  do  not  tremble  ;  but  a  feeling  comes 

Once  all  unknown  to  me — whisp'ring  thought 

Of  what  a  sweet  repose  and  rest  is  his 

Who  sleepeth  here  in  Jesus ! 

Oh,  when  I  shall  arise  from  this  low  bed, 
My  soul,  clothed  in  some  new  and  glorious  dress, 
Fitly  arrayed  to  meet  Him  whom  it  loves, 
How  will  I  bear  the  thoughts  that  like  a  flood 
Shall  overwhelm  me  ?     In  one  moment  brief 
Will  come  the  consciousness  of  death  as  past, 
Of  life  eternal,  unpolluted,  blest, 
Bestowed  and  now  begun !     This  is  the  place, 
The  bridal-chamber  of  this  destiny- 
Should  I  not  love  it  then,  and  linger  here, 
With  forward-reaching  thoughts  of  things  to  come  ? 


THE    PEAYEE   MEETING. 

UPON  the  crowded  highway  of  this  world, 
He  who  doth  live  for  its  brief  space  alone, 
And  he  who  sees  it  but  a  pilgrimage 
Toward  a  better — both  together  strive. 
Their  hands  join,  and  their  voices  mingle  o'er 
Their  common  tasks ;  they  both  as  brethren  are 
In  this  impris'ning  flesh,  whose  stern  demands 
Impelleth  all  alike  to  win  their  bread. 
But  in  this  room  apart,  as  in  the  cleft 
Of  the  protecting  rock,  a  little  band 
Do  meet  to  mingle  hopes  that  not  all  share. 
Not  for  the.  riches  of  this  world  they  come, 
But  to  send  forward  wing'd,  rejoicing  thoughts 
Toward  their  inheritance — to  offer  up 
Their  mutual  petitions,  and  give  voice 
To  common  praise.     That  they  do  thither  come, 
Proclaims  whose  name  they  bear.     If  unto  God 

7* 


78  THE   PRAYER-MEETING. 

They  yield  not  service,  here  have  they  no  rest ; 
But  those  who  come  thus,  He  is  pledged  to  meet. 
How  holy  then  this  place,  and  how  refreshed 
Should  each  soul  be  departing ! 
Oh !  shepherds,  and  oh !  flocks,  who  seek  this  fold 
So  oft — seek  it  prepared !    Let  no  cold  hearts 
Mar  your  communion  or  drag  back  your  prayers 
When  they  would  leap  to  heaven.     Eemember  these 
Blest  seasons  are  recorded,  and  a  loss 
Or  gain  attends  each  one.     Not  many  more, 
And  thou  shalt  go  where  such  an  hour  improved 
Shall  seem  more  rich  than  all  earth's  mines  of  wealth. 


SILENT   INFLUENCES. 

THE  sunshine  silent  falls  upon  the  bud, 

No  voice  doth  answer,  but  the  secret  cell 

Within  enlargeth,  and  the  embryo  hid 

Swells  and  perfects  itself  to  the  full  flower. 

The  writer  sits  in  some  lone  room  apart, 

He  utters  there  no  word,  his  arm  toils  not, 

He  holds  his  pen,  and  as  an  idler  seems ; 

Yet  from  that  quietude  do  thoughts  come  forth 

That,  as  with  wings,  do  fly  from  heart  to  heart, 

O'er  the  wide  world,  with  moving  influence. 

It  is  not  by  the  sound  nor  show  without 

We  judge  of  the  result.    He  who  doth  all, 

Curbing  this  fleeting  world  and  all  the  stars, 

Doeth  it  silently.     Canst  thou  stand  forth 

Far  in  the  forest,  when  each  early  shoot 

Peeps  from  the  rugged  bark,  and  every  blade 

From  the  moist  earth  springs  up  in  its  own  place — 


80  SILENT  INFLUENCES. 

Canst  thou  hear  then  a  whisp'ring  'mong  the  leaves, 
New  waked  to  life?     Or  canst  thou  from  on  high 
Discern  the  voice  that  calls  them  ?     From  the  world 
That  marks  the  limit  of  an  angel's  flight 
To  this  our  lower  world ;  from  this  again 
To  that  most  distant  in  the  opposite  space, 
An  unseen  silent  influence  pervades 
And  orders  all  things. 


THE   SINFUL   THOUGHT. 

THE  perfect  work  is  difficult.     We  turn 
From  the  pursuit  of  some  ensnaring  sin 
Toward  Virtue,  and,  the  strong  temptation  past, 
Speak  of  our  peril  as  forever  gone ; 
Yet,  in  the  secret  motions  of  desire, 
"We  feel  it  turn  again,  with  eye  of  stealth, 
And  gaze  upon  the  thing  that  had  been  left : 
Words  of  renunciation  and  dislike 
Filling  our  mouths— perhaps  the  form  of  prayer, 
Against  its  power;  so  would  an  evil  heart, 
Even  in  our  chains,  persuade  us  we  are  free ! 
But  we  are  captive  still;  nor  are  we  left 
Ignorant  by  that  consciousness  within, 
Which  deaf  is  to  the  flatteries  of  sense, 
That  it  is  so  with  us.     For  we  retain, 
When  freedom  to  transgress  in  act  is  gone, 
Proneness  to  do  the  same  thing  o'er  in  thought, 


82  THE   SINFUL  THOUGHT. 

Or,  when  not  wilfully  upon  those  thoughts, 

We  summon  up  the  images  impure ; 

Then  when  they  rise  uncalled,  we  look  on  them 

With  gaze  prolonged,  or  the  disturbed,  quick  glance, 

Tasting  alike  in  each  of  the  first  sin. 

This  is  the  guilt  that  none  but  God  doth  know, 

'Tis  hidden  from  mankind — Yet  hath  its  wound 

The  more  of  peril  rankling  out  of  sight. 

The  heart  renewed  knows  its  own  bitterness, 
Not  from  the  shafts  of  outward  foes  alone, 
But  from  those  aching  hurts  and  blemishes, 
For  which  it  may  charge  no  one  but  itself. 
How  do  they  checker  that  interior  life, 
Which  passes  unrecorded !     Worldly  men 
Know  not  our  burdens.     Who  can  summon  me 
To  pay  what  I  have  knowingly  withheld, 
Using  it  as  mine  own  ?     Or  who  can  lay 
To  my  account  untruth,  or  bloody  deed  ? 
Yet,  when  I  bare  my  bosom  toward  my  God, 
There  is  revealed,  e'en  to  my  duller  sight, 
What  smites  the  eye  that  looks,  and  bids  it  weep. 


THE   STEEPLE. 

NEAE  to  my  daily  walks,  for  long  months  past, 

Upon  a  stately  Temple,  lab'ring  men 

A  Steeple  have  been  rearing.     I  have  watched 

Its  gradual  ascent  until,  at  length, 

What  was  beneath  a  wide  and  ample  space, 

Hath  narrowed  to  a  close  and  straitened  pen, 

Wherein  but  one  finds  room.     Yet  do  I  see 

The  blocks  of  stone  uplifted  to  the  height, 

Each  one  it  narrowing  more — till  soon,  I  know, 

The  last  will  rest  upon  its  lonely  place, 

And  perfect  for  all  time  the  work  will  stand ! 

So  is  it  with  the  righteous  man,  who  builds 
By  holy  deeds  and  prayers,  from  day  to  day, 
A  monument  not  visible  to  us, 
But  witnessed  by  the  angels.     Though  he  builds, 
No  merit  doth  he  claim — nor  for  his  toil 


84  THE   STEEPLE. 

Demandeth  as  his  own,  gift  or  reward ; 

He  knows,  although  it  seemeth  of  his  hand, 

The  work  is  God's  and  yields  the  praise  to  Him. 

And  yet,  oh,  Christian,  thus  is  shaped  thy  life ; 

Each  day  hath  its  own  place.    No  voiceless  prayer, 

No  penitent  tear  dropped  noiseless  on  thy  path, 

No  deed  of  charity  or  word  of  love, 

Or  trial  meekly  borne — but  it  doth  add 

Another  height,  or  fix  adornment  there  1 

Thwart  not  the  Power  within  that  speeds  the  work ; 

Let  it  be  lofty,  not  for  thine  own  praise, 

But  His  who  on  its  height  would  write  thy  name. 


THE  ORDERINGS  OF  GOD'S  PROVIDENCE. 

Too  much,  obscured — wrapt  in  forgetfulness, 
Our  past  years  are.     Not  that  we  might  alone 
Search  out  from  'midst  them  by  more  close  regard, 
Sep'rate  and  single  blessings,  then  besought, 
Now  giv'n  and  counted  not — but  that  the  plan 
Which  God  hath  wrought  through  all  the  incidents 
That  do  make  up  our  lives,  might  be  made  plain. 
As  he  who  ordereth  the  battle,  mounts 
To  some  high  steep  that  overlooks  the  field, 
Posting  his  numbered  squadrons  here  and  there — 
So  He  who  o'errules  all  things  for  our  good, 
Our  path  marks  from  its  starting  to  its  end, 
Ere  we  take  the  first  step !    There  are  by-ways, 
Though  rough,  which  help  us  swift  advance  to  make ; 
O'er  rocky  heights — between  their  rugged  tops 
Lie  vales  that  we  must  reach  for  fairest  fruits. 


86      THE   ORDERINGS   OF   GOD'S   PROVIDENCE. 

What  shall  I  offer  Thee,  that  when  I  burned 

In  earlier  youth  to  tread  a  fearful  steep, 

Thou  then  didst  chain  me  to  my  lowly  place  ? 

Thou  didst  those  pinions  bruise  that  would  have  borne 

Me  up,  but  to  become  a  mark  and  prey 

For  the  Death- Archer.     Help  me  now  to  speak 

Some  new  thanksgiving !    Lo,  my  altar  rose 

To  a  false  god.     I  laid  the  wood  thereon, 

And  decked  the  OfFring — it  was  my  own  soul, 

But  thou  didst  smite  the  arm  even  while  outstretched 

To  light  the  murderous  flame !    May  I  not  say 

My  Harp  shall  hymn  thy  praises  and  my  tongue 

Utter  thy  Truth  ?    If  thou  wilt  give  me  grace, 

Then  it  shall  be  so — when  that  is  withheld, 

The  same  day  I  shall  fall ! 


THE    POET. 

COME  up  from  the  soft  earth,  ye  blades  of  grass, 

Ye  opening  buds  that  spring  in  millions  come, 

Each  one  a  new  and  wondrous  miracle ! 

And  thou,  oh  Sun,  that  standest  in  th'  heavens, 

Still  in  the  midst !  while  through  the  eternal  space 

We  and  unnumbered  worlds  for  evermore 

Roll  round  thy  light  in  voiceless  company  ! 

Ye  worlds,  ye  sounding  floods,  ye  murmuring  rills, 

Ye  precipices,  caverns,  solitudes, 

Yea,  all  ye  voiced  and  unvoiced  witnesses, 

Ever  in  lofty  argument  with  the  soul — 

Come,  help  me  magnify  the  ONE  GREAT  NAME  ! 

The  poet  said,  What  am  I  in  this  world 
Of  busy  men  ?    Men  who  are  strong  to  act, 
Who  bind  each  breath  of  favoring  circumstance, 
Helped  on  and  wafted  to  the  wished  for  end ! 


88  THE   POET. 

While  I,  ashamed  and  lonely,  steal  aside 
Unnoted,  unadapted,  useless,  weak, 
By  some  inscrutable,  deep  influence 
Still  longing  for  the  loneliest  of  all  haunts, 
Living  but  when  I  am  in  solitude ! 

Tell  me  what  hand  invisible  it  is 

That  through  the  far-off  depths  of  forests  wild 

Scatters  the  seeds  of  fragrant,  tinted  flowers — 

So  that  they  spring  'midst  the  untrodden  shade 

As  in  a  garden,  though  no  eye  doth  see? 

Who  is  it  from  the  circling  firmament 

Draweth  the  clouds  at  evening  toward  the  west, 

And  drapes  and  groups  them  round  the  setting  sun  ? 

If  bare  and  unadorned  use  alone 

Hath  merit  in  God's  sight,  then  why  are  these  ? 

Lo,  all  his  works  are  perfect,  both  for  use 

And  beauty !    Doth  the  black  unseemly  ore, 

Because  of  the  strong  particles  it  yields, 

More  speak  and  magnify  the  Maker's  praise 

Than  the  frail  rose  that  useless  o'er  it  blooms  ? 

Beware !  his  creatures  all  have  use,  and  serve 

Somewhere  within  the  scale  and  compass  vast 

Of  his  designs,  the  purpose  of  their  being. 


THE   POET.  89 

So  them,  oh  Poet,  may  not  idly  pine 
Amid  these  scenes  of  louder  sounding  toil, 
Nor  from  them,  shrinking  to  some  haunt  aside, 
Waste,  more  than  the  day-laborer,  thine  hours. 
If  God  hath  given  thee  a  different  mind 
'Tis  but  for  other  work !    'Tis  thine  to  bear 
The  small  bright  lamp  he  places  in  thy  hand, 
Through  the  dark  paths  of  Nature  and  the  Soul, 
Noting  the  wonders  to  thy  eye  revealed, 
That  thou  mayst  on  the  parting  threshold  stand 
And  speak  to  mankind — an  interpreter ! 
Thy  fellows  may  not  leave  their  toil  for  this, 
Nor  thou  thy  meditation  for  their  gains. 

And  thou,  oh  Poet,  though  thy  lot  hath  been 
To  loiter  thus  far  on  the  path  of  life 
Without  a  purpose,  while  crowds  passed  thee  by, 
Each  earnest,  burdened  with  some  warm  intent, 
Till  it  hath  seemed  there  was  no  work  for  thee, 
An  idler — one  in  number  o'er  the  plan — 
Thou  too  shalt  know  the  gladness  that  he  feels, 
Who  sees  beneath  his  busy  hand  and  brain 
Some  task  increase  and  toward  perfection  grow, 
While  every  nerve  and  muscle  of  the  mind 
Stretcheth  in  action ! 


90  THE   POET. 

Can  He  whose  foresight  and  creative  power 

Mingle  in  giving  life  but  to  a  worm, 

So  that  its  place  awaits  it,  and  its  use 

Ere,  not  alone  to  be,  but  to  serve  both 

That  place  and  use,  it  cometh  from  his  hand — 

Can  He  have  made  thee  half-way,  without  aim  ? 

Be  patient — learn  to  wait,  yea  willingly 
To  be  still  as  thou  art.     He  measureth 
Man's  work  not  by  its  visible  results 
But  by  its  fitting  to  his  own  high  will. 
And  if  that  will  toward  thee,  is  to  approach, 
Even  as  thou  art,  the  grave — there  lies  thy  task- 
And  toil  that  thwarts  it,  is  but  idleness. 


THE    DYING    HOUR. 

OFTEN  I  think  of  it.    Before  the  time 
It  comes  to  test  my  labors — clothed  in  light, 
Which,  as  a  borrowed  lustre,  gilds  my  works — 
Or  sometimes  wrapt  in  shadows.     Oh,  at  night, 
The  lonely,  silent  night,  I  have  awaked, 
And  this  one  thought  hath  fallen  over  me 
Like  horror  of  deep  darknes? !    All  my  toils, 
Those  finished,  those  yet  shaping  in  my  hands, 
Then  rose  and  stood  as  stern  accusers  forth, 
And  frighted  me — yea,  even  my  holy  things 
Did  threaten  me  with  Hell.     But  ah,  this  was 
My  folly !     I  saw  the  deformity 
Of  my  own  works,  but  looked  not  on  the  robe 
That  should  with  beauty  cover  them — an  awe 
It  was  of  God,  unmingled  with  that  love 
Which  casts  out  fear.     But  presently  again 
He  taught  me  I  was  not  a  purchased  slave, 


92  THE   DYING  HOUR. 

But  an  elected  son  ;  not  by  my  toils 

To  earn  salvation,  but  to  have  the  Gift 

Free  and  unmerited.     For  all  I  do 

Is  tainted,  as  the  pure  and  heavenly  beam 

That  passeth  through  discolored  gloss  is  tinged. 

Yet  am  I  not  to  stand  with  folded  -arms 

(Nor  would  that  cleanse  the  spot) ;  this  is  a  world 

Of  action.     So  'midst  prayers,  I  day  by  day 

Must  onward  press,  and  learn  to  trust  and  leave 

Even  guilt  with  God. 

But  sometimes  as  the  Sun 
Suddenly  filleth  all  the  room  with  light, 
So  'midst  the  hindrances  that  pave  my  way 
In  glorious  fulness  comes  the  knowledge  down 
Of  my  relation — of  that  filial  tie 
By  which  in  truth  I  walk.     Oh,  then  is  mine 
What  freedom  !     With  what  liberty  I  go  ! 
How  doubts  and  snares,  that  mountains  seemed  before, 
Melt  to  the  plain !     Like  one  surprised  with  strength 
Who  long  hath  halt  been,  as  an  hart  I  leap. 
But  soon,  by  fault  of  mine,  becomes  too  great 
This  liberty — I  grow  o'er  confident. 
And  so  once  more,  with  wisdom  temp'ring  love, 
God  letteth  pass  a  cloud. 


THE   DYING   HOUK.  93 

How  changeful  then 

And  dull,  some  voice  will  say,  must  be  such  life  ! 
Where  is  its  privilege  or  peculiar  peace  ? 
'Tis  not  the  searching  eye  can  find  it  out — 
The  heart  must  harbor  it !    God  hath  no  path 
Laid  down  and  measured,  as  man  lays  the  rule 
By  which  he  leads  his  own:  each  diff'ereth 
In  his  defects,  and  needs  a  separate  way. 
The  bitter  drops  and  sweet  are  meted  out, 
Mingled  for  every  soul.    But  here  is  it 
Wherein  all  joy  alike — the  consciousness 
That  He  hath  chosen  us,  and  that  he  brings 
Each  by  the  shortest  path,  through  joy  and  woe — 
Yea,  and  through  sin — to  his  eternal  Eest. 


THE    HOSPITAL. 

WHERE  yonder  lofty  button  woods  lift  up 

Their  leafless  branches  to  a  dizzy  height 

Standeth  apart  the  ancient  Hospital. 

An  hundred  fleeting  years  have  gone  since  there 

Was  laid  its  first  stone  in  a  wilderness. 

It  is  a  place  methinks  where  Death  doth  dwell, 

With  his  full  quiver  of  keen,  torturing  darts  ; 

Yet  Mercy  ministers  to  those  he  wounds. 

She  healeth  him  whose  strength  returns  again, 

And  watches,  soothing,  by  his  bed  who  dies. 

There,  in  a  certain  ward  where  many  lie, 

Is  one  who  hath  trod  life's  lengthened  journey  o'er 

Into  the  winter  that  lies  round  the  tomb. 

In  all  this  wide  and  many-peopled  world, 

She  is  alone ;  not  one  from  whom  to  claim 

Those  sympathies  that  run  in  kindred  blood 


THE   HOSPITAL.  95 

Doth,  to  her  knowledge  breathe.    Shut  in  her  heart 

Are  the  sweet  pictures  of  her  early  youth 

When  in  another  land,  'mid  its  green  fields, 

She  played  beneath  its  open  sky,  a  child! 

Who  shall  she  speak  to  of  these  things  ?  for  'tis 

But  nature  thus  amid  the  snows  of  age 

To  look  back  on  the  op'ning  buds  of  Spring, 

And  so  it  seems  the  dusty  space  between 

Is  often  clear  and  most  transparent  then. 

But  in  these  things — in  all  that  memory 

And  meditation  summon  from  the  past, 

Or  that  the  thoughtful  mind  through  every  hour 

Doth  hold  in  its  own  world — she  is  alone! 

Alone  in  the  heart's  solitude,  aged 

And  poor,  and  laid  in  suff 'rings  ;  yet  beneath 

These  gathered  elements  of  misery, 

That  show  without,  and  do  appal  the  eye, 

There  is  in  her  another  hidden  life, 

Unharmed  by  them,  that  the  eye  cannot  see. 

The  soul  hath,  separate  life.     In  early  youth, 

So  close  it  clingeth  to  the  vigorous  flesh, 

They  seem  as  one ;  but  when  that  flesh,  grown  old, 

Begins  to  shake  and  totter  o'er  the  grave, 

It  looseneth  its  hold,  and  doth  look  out 

Toward  that  eternal  world  to  which  it  tends. 


96  THE   HOSPITAL. 

If  it  hath  then  treasure  laid  up  in  heaven, 
How  doth  it  plume  its  eager  wings  for  flight ! 
So  is  it  with  this  aged  one.     She  came 
O'er  a  long  road,  through  poverty  and  toil, 
To  this  poor  dying  bed ;  but  from  it  now, 
As  she  looks  back  upon  the  desert  past, 
And  forward  to  green  fields  in  sight,  life  seems 
'  As  when  these  skies  are  filled  with  wintry  storms — 
Yet  through  a  gold-rimmed  opening  in  its  clouds, 
Light  cometh  down ;  and  looking  up  we  see 
The  calm  blue  Heavens  o'erspreading  all  above, 
Where  storms,  nor  clouds,  nor  tempests  ever  reach. 


THOUGHT   ASTEAY. 

THOU  lovest  me !     Tell  me,  now,  what  is  Love  ? 
Four  letters  and  one  impulse  of  the  voice ! 
Thus  much  it  is  in  sound — oft  'tis  no  more ; 
But  what,  in  truth,  is  Love? 

Far  to  the  North, 

Ev'n  from  the  centre  of  its  frozen  plain, 
I  start  upon  my  search.    Each  lone  recess 
And  icy  cavern  or  wide  snowy  waste, 
I  tread  with  downcast  eye,  till  to  the  edge 
Of  Winter  come,  I  overstep  his  reign 
And  pass  into  the  intermediate  space, 
Fruitful — a  mighty  field  of  waving  grain — 
That  lies  between  it  and  the  burning  zone. 
Then  following  on,  cross  the  imagined  line 
That  like  a  belt  binds  endless  Summer  in. 
Still  seeking,  on  I  pass  till  the  great  world 
Is  compassed  by  my  footsteps,  and  I  stand 
9 


98  THOUGHT   ASTRAY. 

Upon  the  icy  pedestal  first  left. 
And  yet  in  all  the  search  I  have  not  found 
One  visible  thing  that  shapes  this  feeling  forth. 
The  world  is  void  of  it !  where  shall  I  look 
For  love's  sweet  likeness,  or  its  palpable  form  ? 

Thou'st  trod  the  world  in  the  vain  search ! — now  stand 

Still  where  thou  art,  and  turn  thine  eyes  within. 

Is  it  dark  to  thee  ? — burns  no  candle  there  ? 

Eyes  that  do  reach  without  the  stars  of  heaven, 

Within,  pierce  not  a  single  finger's  length ! 

But  there  are  some  who  too  much  look  within. 

For  as  to  look  without  alone,  doth  dim 

And  blur  the  mirror  of  thy  consciousness, 

To  gaze  in  it  forever  and  to  grow 

Enamored  with  the  study,  doth  neglect 

A  most  demanding  part  of  thee — thy  flesh ; 

Letting  its  ties  unto  the  outer  world 

Decay  for  want  of  use  and  separate. 

And  when  these  ties  are  once  so  broken  off, 

Believe  me,  such  a  shrinking  fills  the  soul 

From  seeking  to  unite  their  bonds  again, 

That  mostly  the  dividing  space  doth  grow, 

Wider  and  deeper,  till  the  sensitive  gulf 

Thou  passest  not  and  none  do  pass  to  thee. 


THOUGHT   ASTRAY.  99 

A  winter  lies  about  thee — round  thy  heart — 

Between  it  and  all  others  it  is  cold ! 

A  snowy  space — a  barrier  of  ice 

Invisible,  but  felt,  doth  hem  thee  in. 

Thou  comest  forth,  dost  jostle  by  the  way 

Thy  fellows — treadest  the  same  earth  with  them — 

Breathest  the  air  they  breathe — dost  feel  their  sun — 

Speakest  with  many ;  yet  in  brotherhood 

Of  purpose  and  uniting  sympathy, 

Thou  walkest  separate  in  another  world  ! 

And  thou  art  conscious  of  it;  they  know  not 

What  'tis  that  chills  them,  while  insensibly 

They  wrap  the  formal  mantle,  when  ye  meet ; 

But  thou  dost  know,  the  cause  lies  at  thy  door. 

Thou  watchest  every  motion,  every  look — 

A  smile  hath  power  thy  need  dernandeth  not — 

A  frown  doth  wound  where  swords  should  blunt  their 

edge. 

Thou  hast  grown  sensitive  to  looks  and  breaths, 
Motions  and  glances ;  all  these  magnified, 
And  changed  from  their  own  unessential  life, 
Are  armed  against  thee — fancied  enemies. 
All  quick,  the  zephyr's  breath  doth  wound  at  last, 
Till  life  to  thee  hath  grown  a  weariness  ! 
Then  by  the  narrowings  of  thy  fate  impelled 


100  THOUGHT   ASTRAY. 

Thou  dost  retreat  back  from  the  dreaded  world 
One  more  remove.     Less  frequent  now  thy  foot 
Treadeth  the  open  highway ;  it  doth  seek 
Some  solitary  walk ;  the  approaching  form 
Doth  startle  thee.     The  child's  gaze  fetters  hath, 
The  ball  and  chain  of  the  poor  criminal. 
The  thoughtless  salutation  from  the  lips 
Of  some  chance  passer  reacheth  to  thy  heart, 
Quickeneth  its  motion — maketh  pale  thy  cheek ; 
And  thou  all  out  of  tune,  the  faith  which  held 
Thy  manly  power  up  while  it  scaled  the  wall 
Now  broken — lost,  would  fain  forever  hide, 
At  least  if  no  more,  rescued  from  thy  shame. 
"What  an  eclipse  to  the  bright  lamp  that  burns 
Of  Intellect  within  !  not  that  for  thee 
It  might  shed  light  alone,  but  that  its  rays 
Uplifted  should  shine  through  a  darkened  world ! 

Yet  better  far  to  dim  thus  and  go  out 
Unnoted,  useless,  if  beneath  neglect, 
Discouragement,  and  loss,  thou  hidden  hast 
The  pearl  of  promise  of  a  better  life, 
Than  lacking  it,  to  attach  unto  thyself 
Each  coveted  and  honored  quality 
That  decks  a  man  out  for  this  world's  esteem. 


THOUGHT   ASTRAY.  101 

For  after  all,  as  finished  with  itself, 
What  is  this  life  ?     Take  from  me  e'en  the  guess 
Of  an  hereafter — let  me  contemplate 
The  thing  alone.     I  track  it  from  the  first, 
And  note  its  windings  careful  to  the  end : 
Mark  its  ascending  steps,  the  level  plain 
Upon  its  summit,  and  its  downward  way. 
Then,  when  I  come  to  the  extremest  verge, 
I  gather  up,  upon  the  silent  shore, 
Some  name  illustrious,  place  it  on  the  scale, 
And  in  the  opp'site  balance  one  unknown. 
Lo !  they  do  weigh  alike,  nor  this  nor  that 
Can  bring  the  other  down — a  grain  of  dust 
Will  give  the  victory  to  either  one ! 
But,  though  this  were  the  sum  and  measurement 
Of  life — if  it  did  finish  with  this  world ; 
And  though  this  be  the  most  true  measurement 
Of  those  distinctions  which  do  perish  here, 
Yet,  when  we  leave  this  fancied  briefness  out, 
And  join  these  moments  to  what  lies  beyond, 
Another  estimate  must  fill  our  thoughts. 
We  then  are  taught  that  though  Ambition's  goad 
Doth  urge  us  but  to  folly,  a  command 
Of  true  authority,  and  the  world's  need — 
Its  destitution  in  the  highest  good — 

9* 


102  THOUGHT   ASTRAY. 

Doth  move  us  to  fling  every  fetter  off 
And  gird  us,  as  no  laggards  in  the  race! 

But  I  have  wandered  far  from  that  first  thought 
Which  led  us  to  communion.     What  is  love  ? 
There  is  no  definition.     Love  doth  fill, 
The  scriptures  tell  us,  all  the  breasts  in  heaven — 
And  more,  that  God  himself  is  Love.     But  what 
Is  this  high  quality?     And  who  can  tell 
How  by  despotic  government  it  rules, 
Gentle  and  just,  but  with  resistless  sway, 
When  it  hath  made  its  throne  within  the  breast  ? 
We  may  speak  of  its  influence  benign, 
Its  power  and  its  effects,  but  to  draw  forth 
The  monarch's  form  and  visible  lineaments, 
The  sceptre  and  the  dazzling  royal  robe, 
Is  not  for  mortal  pencil. 


LABOE. 

THE  artist  seeks,  when  his  last  piece  is  done, 
For  a  new  subject.     Many  in  review 
Are  led  by  Fancy — he  doth  choose  but  one. 
To  it  he  yields  his  thought,  and  for  the  time 
Seeks  that  it  may  enamor  him,  by  love, 
To  summon  forth  to  effort  all  his  powers. 
How  can  he  woo  the  thing  he  doth  not  love  ? 
Or  what  he  thus  hath  sought  with  entreaty 
Till,  oft  repulsed,  desire  has  turned  aside, 
How  can  he  follow  longer  ? 

The  miner  feels  no  hardship  in  his  toil 
When  all  the  ground  is  rich  ;  it  yields  reward 
At  each  upturning  !     Then  each  thing  puts  on 
A  look  attractive ;  the  surrounding  scene, 
The  lonely  vale,  the  stream  that  waters  it, 
Bearing  down  from  the  mountain  scales  of  gold, 


104  LABOR. 

Seem,  separate  from  the  wealth  they  hold  fc  r  him, 
To  have  a  luring  beauty  of  their  own. 
But  let  him  pass  the  richly  yielding  spot, 
And  labor  by  its  side  with  no  return, 
Forth  from  him  slowly  spreads  an  influence 
Which  mars  to  sight  what  is  in  truth  unchanged. 

So  is  it  with  our  verse.     "We,  as  it  were, 

Walk  on  the  margin  of  some  lonely  lake, 

Looking  beneath  its  waters.     When,  all  clear, 

We  see  the  pebbly  bottom,  and  discern 

Strewed  there  the  pearls  we  seek  for,  where  we  may 

Stretch  forth  our  hand  and  gather  them,  or  where, 

At  greater  depths,  they  lie  yet  in  our  sight, 

So,  by  descending,  we  may  bring  them  up, 

Then  all  the  air  invigorates — we  haste 

Joyous  upon  our  way!     But  while  we  walk, 

If  these  same  waters  dim  and  muddied  grow, 

And  we  must  search  at  random  here  and  there, 

Groping  for  what  we  see  not,  weary  soon 

Both  of  the  place  and  labor  we  become. 

One  moment  we  do  love  our  page  ;  it  brings, 

Drawing  them  swiftly  forth  in  definite  form, 

Thoughts  that  had  shapeless  flitted  through  our  mind, 

Or  sometimes  those  we  never  knew  before, 


LABOR.  105 

Eobed  in  fair  words,  drop  finished  from  our  pen ! 
We  look  upon  them  with  their  first  delight, 
And  lay  them  by,  gladly  enticing  more. 
'Tis  but  a  moment,  but  one  backward  step 
From  this  to  deep  disgust !  the  current  ceased, 
Or  all  it  offers  inappropriate, 
There  come  confusion  and  bewilderment, 
That  rob  us  even  of  the  power  of  choice  ! 

Toil  hath  been  ordered  as  the  lot  of  man, 
And  so  is  its  infliction  carried  out 
That  not  one,  poor  or  rich  in  mental  gifts, 
But  if  he  will  excel  where  lies  his  task, 
Must  so  excel  by  labor.     Thou  mayst  bear 
Great  talents,  and  some  great  work  yet  undone 
May  be  reserved  for  thee  ;  yet  if  thou  dost 
Eeach  thy  high  place  and  honored  destiny, 
Not  in  the  smooth  dress  of  the  man  of  ease, 
But  in  the  laborer's  garments  thou  shalt  come. 

Look  through  the  world!  of  all  that  is  possessed 
By  men,  that  thou  wouldst  covet  to  possess, 
Of  skill  or  high  attainment,  what  is  found 
That  hath  been  reached  by  any  other  road  ? 
Though  thou  inherit  the  high  seat  that  rests 


106  LABOR. 

Upon  the  summit  of  a  kingdom's  throne, 
Still,  if  thou  wouldst  bring  honor  to  thy  name, 
And  well  dispense  the  powers  that  cluster  there, 
For  wisdom  thou  must  labor,  searching  far 
Through  her  great  garners,  where  alike  she  calls 
Peasant  and  prince  to  gather  for  himself. 

The  poet,  whatsoe'er  his  gifts  may  be, 
Still  finds  the  brightest  veins  lie  hidden  deep. 
Is  he  who  tracks  the  silver  through  the  rock, 
Or  sifts  the  grains  of  gold,  less  diligent 
Than  he  who  doth  more  plenteous  metal  seek  ? 
Our  place  we  choose  not.     One  doth  cast  our  lot 
Where  He  hath  formed  us  for,  yet  all  alike 
To  labor — His  day  laborers  are  we. 


THE    INKSTAND. 

How  many  here  have  nameless  sat  them  down 
To  rise  renowned !     How  many  have  been  stripped 
Here  of  bright  hopes!     Spreading  from  this  small 

,    source, 

This  little  fountain,  rivers  have  gone  forth 
T'  enrich  the  earth — fair  streams  whose  swelling  tides 
Bore  freights  of  wisdom  to  remotest  lands. 
Here  too,  have  gushed  up  bitter  poisonous  springs, 
Which  but  to  taste  was  death.     Methinks  I  see 
Another  strife  around  the  deep  Well's  mouth, 
As  when  Lot's  herdsmen  strove  with  Abram's !     Here 
Th'  invisible  powers  of  evil  that  do  tempt 
Us  to  the  race  for  fame,  encamp  'gainst  those 
Who  woo  us  to  God's  service. 

'Tis  a  thing 

Of  weightiest  account  to  write  for  those 
Who  shall  come  after  us.     The  spoken  word 
Moves  but  a  ripple  in  the  air  and  dies ; 


108  THE   INKSTAND. 

But  that  writ  down — transmitted  as  a  gift 

From  thee  to  countless  spirits  yet  unborn, 

Shall  go  on  planting,  planting  the  same  seed — 

Its  harvest  lasts  through  Time !     Though  unto  thee 

In  thine  unhappy  dwelling  after  death, 

Souls  shall  be  sent,  having  chos'n  by  thy  word 

Till  thou  wouldst  stop  the  stream — 'twill  be  too  late ! 

Engraved  once  on  the  world's  recording  book, 

The  lesson  thou  hast  left  there,  must  endure, 

Be  't  good  or  evil.     And  though  thou  shouldst  come 

By  after  penitence  to  the  safe  fold 

Where  not  thy  first  defects,  nor  foemen's  shafts 

Shall  ever  wound  thee — yet,  if  by  those  lines 

Written  before,  not  now  to  be  effaced, 

Others  do  lose  the  path  that  thou  hast  found, 

How  marred  thy  blest  conclusion!     But  if  drawn 

Heavenward  by  thy  wooings,  they  are  led 

Through  coming  ages  to  thy  new  abode, 

Then  seems  thine  own  salvation  but  a  part — 

But  one  gem  of  thy  gath'ring — as  one  gift 

'Midst  offerings  large  to  the  skies'  treasury. 

Beware,  then,  oh,  my  Heart !     And  thou,  dumb  thing, 
My  slender  golden  pen,  now  glittering  bright 
Beneath  the  morning's  beam — if  I  might  speak 


THE   INKSTAND.  109 

To  thee,  being  heard,  how  would  I  caution  give 
Not  to  betray  thy  trust !     It  may  be  so 
That  thy  words  traced  in  this  retreat  alone 
Shall  live  !  that  what  no  ear  now  listens  to, 
Or  eye  will  stop  to  note,  shall  gain  a  place 
Enduring  on  Time's  tablet :  let  them  be 
Each  one  approved,  as  if  'twere  surely  so. 
Then  be  their  station  lowly,  near  the  path, 
Where  he  who  runs  may  read — or  lifted  up 
To  greater  height  for  smaller  sympathy, 
It  will  be  well.    Not  for  thy  power  to  climb 
My  feeble  thought,  art  thou  made  ans'rable, 
But  that  thou  reach  th'  attainable  ascent 
Following  the  true  pursuit.     And  b'etter  far — 
Witness  my  soul  and  every  faculty 
That  my  tongue  speaks  your  wish — to  never  rise, 
Or  leave  a  reputation  that  surmounts 
The  level  of  the  green  grass  o'er  my  grave, 
Than  to  do  so  by  evil. 


10 


PEEMEDITATION. 

PREMEDITATION  stares  the  rising  thought 
Or  image  out  of  countenance.     I  wait 
Before  I  write  it  down,  to  see  it  fair 
In  all  its  full  proportion,  turn  it  o'er 
And  o'er — and  it  is  loathsome  to  my  sight ! 
Or  else  the  thread  I  gather  not  at  first 
But  follow  back  too  far  into  the  skein 
Grows  tangled,  and  the  whole  is  cast  aside. 
Nor  is  it  all  that  these  themselves  are  lost — 
Baffled  endeavor  is  defeat,  which  blunts 
And  wastes  the  ardor  of  the  next  attack. 

We  need,  as  in  our  spiritual  life, 

So  in  our  mental  labors,  well  to  know 

And  study  out  ourselves.    Mind  marks  the  man. 

The  beast  that  daily  bears  for  us  his  load 

We  learn  to  humor  as  we  note  his  strength, 


PREMEDITATION.  Ill 

Whether  by  quickened  or  by  gentler  gait, 
With  loosed  or  tightened  rein,  he  best  shall  find 
And  soonest  reach  the  journey's  distant  end. 
The  ship  that  bears  us  has  its  favorite  tack, 
Nor  is  there  one  upon  the  boundless  sea 
But  he  who  standeth  at  the  helm  can  tell 
Whence  come  the  winds  that  drive  her  swiftest  on. 
So  we  ourselves  may  not  at  first  discern 
Our  surest  path  of  progress,  and  long  years 
May  be  consumed  in  seeming  wasted  toil, 
But  having  found  it,  and  at  last  put  off 
The  weights  that  had  before  held  back  our  steps, 
We  learn,  but  not  till  then,  our  sum  of  strength. 


MY   DESK. 

THIS  pierced  box  upon  my  Writing  Desk 
Is  filled  with  grains  of  sand.     They  to  the  sea 
Were  once  a  barrier.     For  years  gone  by, 
For  centuries  and  trains  of  ages  passed 
They  did  receive  the  billows  as  they  rolled 
And  thinly  spread  far  up  along  the  beach. 
The  fisher's  foot  hath  pressed  them,  or  the  form 
Uncovered,  delicate,  cast  from  the  wreck, — 
The  hand  of  beauty  in  her  lonely  walk 
Upon  the  summer's  evening,  there  hath  writ, 
With  outstretched  finger  the  desired  name. 
It  hath  beheld — this  little  heap  of  sand — 
The  midnight  tempest  charging  o'er  the  Deep, 
Or  glistened  as  it  gently  rolled  away 
With  morn  or  evening  sun.     Now  it  hath  come 
Thus  prisoned  to  me  for  a  baser  use. 

Here  is  my  pen,  too — a  small  scale  of  gold 


MY   DESK.  113 

First  hid  in  the  dark  bosom  of  the  earth 

Is  given  shape  in  it.     I  cannot  tell 

From  whence  'twas  brought,  or  by  whom  it  was  found. 

Some  arm  hath  toiled  for  it — some  eager  hand 

Has  gladly  stretched  to  clutch  it :  then  it  passed 

Into  how  many  forms  before  it  reached 

This  one  in  me !    And  yet  how  many  more 

"Will  it  yet  wear  when  it  is  lost  to  me ! 

Gold  keeps  good  company,  its  servants  say — 

It  lodgeth  with  the  rich,  lineth  their  purse, 

Or  sits  enthroned  above  some  lovely  brow, 

Clasping  a  jewel  there — but  with  the  poor 

It  stays  not ! 

My  porcelain  Inkstand !  where  were  dug  those  earths 
Which  amid  flames  were  to  each  other  joined, 
Made  one  fair  mass  in  it  ?    What  foreign  hand 
Did  with  such  art  create  these  mingled  flowers  ? 
Who  studied  out  its  shape  to  please  the  eye, 
And  gave  the  whole  thing  beauty  ?    Can  I  fix 
A  date,  or  habitation,  or  a  name 
For  one  of  these  ?    I  cannot :  all  I  know 
Is  what  my  eye  now  tells  me  as  I  turn 
And  see  it  here.    This  is  the  smallest  part 
Of  the  withheld  recital ! 

10* 


114  MY   DESK. 

Next  I  see 

This  small  mock  weapon  close  by  my  right  hand, 
Its  blade  of  fine  grained,  polished  ivory, 
Its  handle  silver-studded  bears  a  hoof 
Yet  perfect  in  its  form — the  hairy  hide 
Still  as  in  life  about  it.     Could  I  tell 
Of  the  far  wastes  where  roamed  the  elephant, 
Or  paint  the  yet  green  fields  where  leaped  the  deer 
That  gave  their  lives  to  furnish  me  this  toy, 
I  might,  perchance,  not  heedless  lay  it  down 
As  I  do  now  each  hour.     The  very  thing 
Which  seems  most  worthless,  and  which  we  least  prize, 
If  it  had  utterance  to  tell  us  all 
That  hath  passed  near  it,  would  the  dullest  ear 
Detain  in  wrapt  attention  day  by  day, 
Until  its  tale  were  told.     This  polished  oak 
Of  which  my  desk  is  framed,  had  it  such  voice, 
Thus  might  it  speak :  A  century  ago, 
The  tree  from  out  whose  bark-embraced  side 
I  came,  was  but  a  small  and  tender  shoot; 
The  spot  whereon  it  grew,  was  near  the  top 
Of  a  high  wooded  hill.     From  year  to  year 
Left  to  the  nurturing  of  the  winter's  storm 
Or  summer's  gentler  care — I  upward  sprang 
From  the  green  level  of  the  grassy  earth, 
Until  I  pierced  the  forest's  roof  above. 


MY   DESK.  115 

Ye  men  behold  our  lofty  branches  spread 

One  o'er  another,  deep'ning  for  your  shade, 

But  ye  see  not  the  even  boundless  plain 

That  like  a  rippling  sea,  far  from  its  coast, 

Lies  at  the  forest's  top !    Above  it  soar 

The  eagle — all  the  plumed  inhabitants 

Of  th'  untrod  woods.    The  armed  and  mounted  blast 

There  sporteth  at  his  will — the  driven  clouds, 

Or  those  that  sleep  like  the  leviathan 

Unmoved  in  the  still  deep,  look  down  on  us, 

Or  stooping  kiss  our  topmost  trembling  leaves. 

Beneath,  upon  my  trunk,  grew  tufts  of  moss — 

Unnumbered  creatures  clung  to  me,  and  found, 

Somewhere  upon  my  surface,  spread  abroad, 

A  home.     The  lizard,  mottled  like  my  bark, 

Lay  close  and  still  as  neared  the  Indian's  tread — 

He  his  own  blind  to  vision.     Up  my  side 

Coursed  the  untired  ant ;  and  when  the  months 

of  Summer  and  sad  Autumn  were  all  gone, 

And  I  had  seen  that  ocean  of  green  leaves 

Put  countless  colors  on,  and  fade  and  fall — 

"  Then  fell  the  snow  through  all  the  winter's  day, 

And  at  the  eve  still  fell !  then  the  great  owl 

Stood  up  in  his  high  place,  and  shook  his  wings, 

Scattering  a  downy  shower  from  all  the  branch. 


116  MY    DESK. 

He  hooted  through  the  woods  till  the  wild  night 
Seemed  wailing  in  his  voice  !    At  spring,  again, 
Close  to  my  root,  the  early  flowers  came  forth 
"[Intended  by  man's  hand ;  while  the  vast  bulk, 
Compassed  by  all  my  arms  and  boughs  outspread, 
Was  decked  with  new-come  buds.    I  heard  the  song — 
The  first  cry  of  the  birds  returned  to  me, 
And  knew  from  where,  'mid  endless  Spring,  they  came. 
Thus  taught  I  have  been  of  the  secret  ways 
Of  nature ;  and  could  speak  more  of  the  lives, 
And  hid  conversings  of  her  multitudes 
Than  men  in  most  learned  books  I" 


THE   NATURAL   INTELLECT. 

THOU  ever  first  in  Song !  who  climbed  so  well 

Fame's  loftiest  height,  and  still  unreached  dost  stand 

In  lonely  grandeur  on  that  cloudy  Peak, 

Idolized  as  thou  art  from  age  to  age, 

I  had  rather  be  in  the  green  vale  below 

An  unknown  little  child  in  Christ  than  thee ! 

True  Wisdom  is  a  second  birth,  and  separate 

From  that  by  which  the  intellect  arrayed 

In  sullied  splendor  waketh  into  being. 

He  who  is  richest  in  mere  gifts  of  mind, 

Hath  no  more  skill  to  guide  his  soul  aright 

Than  has  the  poorest.    Both  are  destitute 

Of  that  renewing  beam,  which  fall'n  from  heaven 

Upon  the  heart  illumines  it  with  light, 

And  without  which  all  must  benighted  go, 

Finding  not,  though  they  seek,  the  Way  of  Life. 

Here  is  the  Condemnation,  that  this  Light 

Is  offered  us,  but  we  love  darkness  more. 


POSTHUMOUS   FAME. 

To  die,  is  but  the  fate  decreed  for  all, 
And  dying  thus  to  lose  in  all  we  have 
That  property  which  gave  it  worth  to  us. 
What  I  do  here  possess  I  may  give  up 
For  others'  use — I  must  give  up  at  death ; 
And  what  I  have  which  Death  robs  me  not  of — 
As  a  renowned  name — though  still  I  keep, 
Is  worthless  to  me  who  have  from  it  gone. 
For  though  it  lives  and  still  remaineth  mine, 
'Tis  in  a  stronger  sense  not  thus,  while  I 
Am  dead,  though  it  lives  and  can  know  it  not. 
Because,  where'er  my  dwelling  after  death, 
To  this  world  and  the  things  within  it  bound 
I  am  as  if  in  all  I  ceased  to  be. 
Therefore  I  find  the  thought  within  my  soul 
Taking  the  less  note  of  this  present  life, 
And  looking  unto  that  which  lies  beyond. 


HEEE   AND   HEEEAFTEE. 

WE  here  do  differ:  some  have  store  of  wealth, 
Some  do  inherit  power,  some  rich  gifts, 
That,  in  circuits  vast  and  flight  of  thought, 
Exalt  them  o'er  their  fellows.    But  all  go 
Poor,  stripped,  alike,  into  the  other  world ! 
Possessions,  talents,  power,  no  value  have 
In  the  celestial  estimate.     One  price 
And  costly  Gem  alone,  is  current  there. 
He  who  in  intellect  ne'er  reached  our  height, 
Who  in  his  lot  was  lodged  with  our  contempt, 
Who  did  group  in  his  body  all  defects, 
If  but  possessed  of  this,  shall  show  more  fair 
And  have  more  honor,  than  he  lacking  it 
Who  reigned  here,  adding  lustre  to  his  throne ! 


THE   SNOW-STORM. 

THE  feathery  flakes  are  dancing  in  the  air; 
How  subtle  must  that  influence  be  which  draws, 
Each  one  down  from  its  flight !    So  slight  they  seem, 
The  viewless  winds  might  be  their  dwelling-place 
Where  they  should  still  abide.     Within  my  glance 
Millions  now  slow  descend;  they  whirl — turn  back, 
Climb  toward  the  skies  again — far  from  their  course 
Are  driven  ere  they  reluctant  touch  the  earth, 
Yet  o'er  this  field  the  spotless  covering 
Rests,  smoothly  spread,  as  though  some  master  hand 
Had,  after,  levelled  it,  or  counted  out 
The  layers  in  each  pile.     From  yonder  cloud 
O'erhanging  us,  the  silent  messengers  fall 
Which  thus  doth  waste  itself  and  back  return 
Its  substance  to  the  earth,  from  whence  it  came, 
From  the  deep  sea — the  broad  and  mighty  river, 
Or  rivulets  and  dews,  it  woo'd  you  up, 


THE   SNOW-STORM.  121 

Ye  countless  drops,  now  fettered  in  my  sight, 

Each  in  its  crystal  prison.     Oh, 'how  fair 

This  wintry  scene !    Not  that  it  should  endure, 

Else  would  it  tire  the  eye  and  bolt  the  doors 

Of  earth's  most  bounteous  store-house:  but  thus  shown 

'Midst  nature's  ever-shifting  imagery, 

How  beautiful !    Nor  beautiful  alone, 

But  'neath  these  white  folds,  closely  covered  lies 

The  autumn's  wheat,  unreached  by  nipping  winds, 

So  that  th'  untainted  sheet  a  robe  becomes — 

A  fitting  garment — that  doth  nurture  life. 

Flung  o'er  the  hills  and  'midst  the  wild  ravines, 

It  melts  and  gently  trickles,  drop  by  drop, 

Into  the  secret  cisterns  of  the  springs, 

Which  hoard  the  precious  store  for  summer's  need. 

He  who  doth  shiver  with  the  cold,  and  fault 

The  snow's  thick  fall  to-day,  shall  bathe  his  brow 

Yet  in  some  fountain,  'neath  a  sultry  noon, 

And  though  he  knew  it  not,  be  blessed  in  it ! 

But  what  is  there  in  this  our  fallen  world, 
Which  bringeth  benefits,  and  in  itself 
Is  harmless — that  hath  from  its  first  intent 
Not  been  diverted  by  our  sins  ?    The  breath 
That  cools  the  sick  man's  cheek,  hastes  on  its  way 
11 


122  THE   SNOW-STORM. 

Till  it  becomes  the  tempest,  dealing  death  ; 

The  dew-drop  that  scarce  bends  the  pendant  flower, 

Once  helped  to  drown  the  mountain-tops.     So  ye 

Soft,  feathery  snow-flakes,  gathered  high  above 

Some  sleeping  hamlet,  when  the  breath  of  Spring 

Hath  loosed  your  frozen  grasp,  come  thundering  down 

The  fearful  avalanche !    Or  fruitful  vales, 

Between  high  lifted  peaks,  ye  do  fill  up, 

Denying  the  soft  earth  to  hungering  mouths 

And  willing  hands.     But  further  toward  the  poles 

Ye  sea  and  land  wrap  in  enduring  bonds, 

Capping  the  globe  with  ice.     What  clothes  this  field 

In  white — this  landscape  in  an  innocent  robe 

That  guards  the  embryo  root  and  melting  pours 

Refreshing  drops  o'er  all  beneath — there  spreads 

A  stony,  frigid  wilderness  afar, 

Nursing  fierce  storms — sending  them  o'er  the  earth 

On  errands  of  destruction. 

'Midst  thy  works 

I  dwell,  O  Lord !  their  kindly  influences 
Eeceiving,  and  their  countless  visible  charms 
Looking  upon  with  joy :  yet  well  I  know 
There  is  not  one  but,  clothed  with  power  by  thee, 
May  in  a  moment  wound  me.    Still  I  live, 
Not  fearful,  but  assured  that  thy  command 


THE   SNOW-STORM.  123 

O'erruleth  all :  rejoicing  in  the  word 
That  every  creature  worketh  for  his  good 
Who  loveth  thee,  I  wait  from  day  to  day 
Their  various  messages,  nor  would  I  dread 
That,  which  at  last,  by  some  such  hand  shall  come, 
Calling  me  to  thy  presence. 


THE   SECRET  SIN. 

CAN  I  in  secret  cherish  now  this  Sin, 

And  hope  to  reap  not,  some  time,  punishment? 

What  though  I  it  confess  not  to  myself, 

And  utter  forth  anew  each  morn  a  prayer 

Against  the  tempter,  when  as  eve  comes  on 

I  welcome  him  again  with  smiling  look  ? 

Is  there  uncertainty  or  blinding  doubt 

Between  me  and  my  fault  ?    Can  I  not  tell 

Whether  'tis  mine  or  laid  on  me  unkown  ? 

Ah  yes,  the  turning  of  my  ear  away 

From  the  loud  condemnation  of  my  heart 

Drowns  not  that  inward  sense  which  needs  no  tongue 

To  tell  me  I  am  guilty !    And  if  guilt 

I  thus  permit  to  spread  with  clinging  root, 

I  know  with  blood  it  must  be  plucked  at  length. 

The  terms  whereon  we  hold  our  inward  peace 

Have  not  been  changed,  nor  is  the  sleepless  eye 


THE   SECKET  SIN.  125 

That  marks  each  taker  of  the  covenant, 
Dimmed  that  it  cannot  see.     Th'  avenging  arm 
Still  doth  exist  and  hoard  its  dreaded  strength 
When  nothing  hurts,  and  we,  secure,  sin  on, 
As  in  the  moment  when  descends  its  blow ! 
What  then  is  needed  ?    That  these  wav'rings  cease 
Between  indulgence  and  infirm  regret : 
That  I  let  conscience  cry  into  my  ear, 
How  but  to  taste  of  what  we  dare  not  drink, 
Partakes  in  the  true  nature  of  the  deed 
Of  the  full  crime,  and  shares  its  penalty. 
For  look,  my  soul,  how  thou  art  hemmed  within 
Cherished  possessions !    These  are  all  a  mark 
For  the  correcting  shaft,  or  may  become 
Keen  instruments  of  torture.     Are  there  not 
Some  bound  to  thee  by  such  close  union 
They  seem  to  be  not  of  a  separate  life, 
But  part  of  self,  and  self's  most  tender  part  ? 
Lo,  but  to  touch  them  or  to  breathe  upon, 
How  dost  thou  tremble !    Pleasures  that  have  led 
Thee  upon  doubtful  paths  for  many  years, 
Holding  thee  chained  by  their  returning  spell, 
Do  in  a  moment  lose  their  prolonged  power, 
Their  fascination  turned  to  loathed  defects, 

11* 


126  THE   SECRET  SIN. 

Thou  hatest  them — because  linked  with  the  thought 

Of  retribution  now  poured  on  the  head 

Of  one  whose  wounds  bleed  chiefly  in  thyself ! 

Yet  may  such  pay  the  forfeit  if  the  love 

Thou  hast  for  Him  who  bids  thee  put  away 

All  known  sin  for  his  sake,  can  move  thee  not. 


IMMOKAL    WKITING. 

I  BESTOW  it  doth  become  so  weak  a  pen — 

Or  rather  one  that  utt'rance  gives  a  heart 

So  stored  to  its  full  share  of  guilt  as  mine — 

To  gently  deal  with  others,  and  condemn 

Temp'ring  their  judgment  by  mine  own  desert. 

Yet  in  this  thing,  if  all  the  gathered  world 

My  audience  were— pledged  to  uphold  my  word — 

I  would  call  on  them,  that  when  traitor  turned, 

I  use  the  arms  God  gave  me  for  their  aid 

To  wound  my  fellow  soldiers  whom  he  loves, 

They  count  me  fallen !    Turn  me  from  the  ranks ! 

Forget  my  words  and  deeds !    Though  I  should  change, 

Seek  to  wound  virtue  and  myself  be  slain, 

Virtue  is  Virtue  still ! 


THE   PRESENT. 

THE  Present,  with  its  portion,  though  that  be 
Increased  an  hundred  fold  from  days  gone  by, 
Seems  ill  provided,  and  we  still  go  poor ! 
What  once  was  coveted,  now  being  won, 
Is  valued  not — 'tis  needful  to  be  prized 
That  it  should  still  lie  just  beyond  our  reach. 
Poor  cause  for  Him  to  bless  who  giveth  all 
And  marks  th'  effect,  what  offered  gratitude 
Or  increase  of  content !    Let  it  not  be 
Thus  with  my  heart.     As  one  cast  from  the  wreck 
While  he  stands  dripping  on  the  rocky  coast, 
And  sees  his  fellow's  lifeless  form  washed  in, 
Doth  feel  anew  thanksgivings  for  his  life, 
So  let  me  feel,  and  gaze  still  at  the  want 
That  I  am  saved  from — at  the  penury, 
Disease,  and  woe,  on  millions  round  me  laid, 
Rather  than  midst  so  great  deliverance, 
Repine  for  one  gift  more ! 


THE   EYE    OF   FLESH. 

BE  still,  dull  tongue, 

And,  all  ye  senses,  be  closed  up,  but  sight, 
This  is  the  presence  of  the  beautiful ! 
Gaze,  gaze,  ye  voiceless  orbs,  whose  glance  without 
Shining  within  upon  th'  imprisoned  soul, 
Feeds  its  mysterious,  sleepless  power  of  thought. 
Oh,  outward  eye,  thou  art  chief  minister 
To  the  pent  spirit !    Thou  bring'st  to  its  cell 
Far  worlds  that  glimmer  on  the  edge  of  space, 
Or,  for  its  view  dost  deck  its  dungeon  walls 
With  fair  scenes  of  this  earth — fields,  forests,  flowers. 
Thus  dost  thou  wait  on,  and  inform  the  soul 
That  is  so  blind-folded  and  fettered  now ; 
Yet,  in  that  day  when  it  shall  be  unveiled, 
Needed  no  more — all  thy  strange  beauty  gone — 
Thy  light  shall  dim — thou'lt  shrink  and  fall  to  dust, 
As  but,  a  clod  of  base  and  common  clay  ! 


OUR   LIFE. 

UNTO  the  watchful  mind  which  doth  compare, 

And  weigh  its  inward  pleasures  day  by  day 

With  those  more  perfect  shaped  by  its  desire, 

How  doth  this  life,  when  in  the  balance  laid, 

Seem  wanting  1    There  are  elements  enough 

Of  pure  sensation  in  the  new-born  heart, 

But  there  remain  too,  roots  of  bitterness. 

These  contraries  the  heart  itself  contains, 

And,  at  the  best,  would  muddied  streams  bring  forth, 

But  when  beside  its  lack,  we  count  the  world 

Wherein  'tis  placed — the  hourly  influences 

It  lends  to  ruffle  and  disturb,  we  find 

How  like  a  thing  placed  far  beyond  our  grasp, 

Reached  but  by  sight,  is  perfect  happiness ! 

The  torrent,  bursting  from  the  mountain's  side, 

Foaming  'midst  rocks  until  it  reach  the  base, 

If  poured  at  first  o'er  some  smooth  marbled  way 


OUR  LIFE.  131 

Would  flow  with  scarce  a  ripple.     But  its  course 

Thus  rugged  and  uneven,  was  marked  out 

By  Him  who  called  it  from  its  secret  spring. 

Take  from  us  the  deep  consciousness  we  feel 

Of  a  capacity  for  purer  joys, 

And  we  will  want  them  not,  insensible ! 

But  leave  this  consciousness,  and  from  our  lot 

Remove  the  opposing  trials  of  this  life, 

How  can  we  crave  to  ever  see  fulfilled 

Its  now  continual  prophecy  of  heaven ! 


THE   WOKK   OF   AKT. 

THE  Gem  that  doth  surprise  the  gazer's  eye 
Was  found  by  long,  tired  search.    Its  pent  up  rays 
Of  darting  light  were  loosed  by  patient  toil. 
And  so  the  work  that  bringeth  sudden  joy 
Costless,  unsought — was  weariness  to  him 
Who  wrought  its  each  proportion,  long  before 
As  a  new  thing  'twas  greeted  by  the  world. 
But  having  fashioned  it,  and  turned  aw$y 
From  its  stale  contemplation,  he  at  length 
Looks  back,  and  with  fond  eye,  what  others  praise 
Sees  doubly  fair — thus  reaping  a  reward ! 


TEE   ANGLEK. 

SEE  how  this  Angler  patient  watches  o'er 
The  line  he  holds !    Its  armed,  enticing  bait 
Is  hidden  from  his  sight.     So  is  the  place — 
The  wat'rj  chambers  and  the  wand'ring  prey 
Whereto  it  hangs  beneath.     He  can  but  note 
The  painted  float  above,  and  draw  it  forth 
Not  sure  of  a  reward.     So  do  I  watch 
Above  the  peopled  current  of  the  mind, 
And  with  my  pen  whate'er  it  offers  take 
And  lay  it  by,  not  hasty  to  reject 
Even  seemless  useless  gifts,  lest  I  may  lose 
With  them  those  of  more  worth.     But  when  my  store. 
My  little  basket  for  the  time  is  full, 
I  cease  to  toil,  and  after  interval 
Of  changed  pursuit,  back  to  its  hoard  return ; 
What  suits  my  lacking  not,  then  cast  away, 
What  serves  my  need  apply  unto  its  use. 
12 


THE    EELEASE. 

I  THOUGHT,  as  by  my  friend's  sick  couch  I  stood, 
How  like  the  way  is  made  we  all  must  tread, 
Feeble  and  suffering,  downward  to  the  tomb  1 
If  we  could  take  this  from  our  portion  off, 
Disease  and  the  accompaniments  of  death, 
And  go  up  lifted  as  Elijah  was, 
Unto  that  Best  now  reached  alone  through  them, 
How  many  who  do  shrink  from  year  to  year, 
And  tremble  o'er  the  last  delivering  step 
Would  crowd  life's  farther  threshold !    It  is  well 
Some  slight,  imagined  bar  should  hold  us  back, 
Or  clamors  for  deliverance  would  arise 
Till  they  should  trouble  Heaven. 


PRAISE. 

j 

As  everything  in  Nature,  from  the  star 

That  sparkles  in  the  zenith,  to  the  worm 

That  on  the  earth  I  tread  between  my  feet, 

Telleth  of  a  Creator — and  as  more 

We  do  unfold  its  parts,  it  telleth  more 

Of  that  Creator's  wisdom,  goodness,  power; 

So  I  could  wish  that  every  thought  drawn  forth, 

And  image  from  the  store-house  of  my  mind, 

Might  speak  thanksgiving !  and  as  from  the  depths, 

Deeper  within  that  treasury  it  was  born, 

So  it  might  higher  rise  in  rendering  praise. 

Praise  is  the  one  great  utterance !  the  song 

Of  all  things  round  me !    Nature  in  her  haunts, 

And  man  as  I  behold  him,  for  the  sum 

Of  all  his  acts  and  checkered  history 

Is  the  fulfilling  of  a  supreme  will. 

Not  that  God  moves  to  sin,  but  man  intent 


130  PRAISE. 

Upon  his  purpose,  wealth  or  pleasure  here, 
Chooseth  his  way,  but  God  appoints  the  end! 
God's  enemies  do  praise  him,  for  their  zeal 
In  guilt  he  turneth  to  his  own  account, 
Making  them  strive  unconsciously  for  good. 
The  wicked  have  been  scourges  in  his  hand 
i  To  scourge  their  fellows;  or  their  stripes  laid  on 

Have  humbled   saints   whom   pride  held  back  from 

heaven. 

The  righteous  praise  Him,  even  when  they  fall, 
And  miss  the  path,  in  that  true  penitence 
Which  weeping  doth  retrace  each  erring  step. 


OUE   CHANGING   FKAMES. 

I  HAD  a  glimpse  of  Heaven.     Not  by  the  eye 
Of  flesh,  nor  yet  that  ray  less,  inward  sight, 
Which  looketh  through  no  organ,  but  discerns 
By  spiritual  knowledge  forms  that  are — 
It  was  a  state  of  feeling ;  a  still  calm 
Whereby  each  trait'rous  passion,  all  subdued, 
Laid  as  if  chained  forever !  while  my  love 
For  those  whom  I  should  love,  not  marred  by  doubt 
Of  their  affection,  or  by  unkind  thought, 
Watered  my  heart  as  some  pure  gushing  stream. 
Then  too,  Sin,  in  those  forms  which  she  puts  on, 
Mostly  tempt  me  (which  none  know  but  me), 
Seemed,  though  I  warred  not  with  her,  all  withdrawn. 
I  noted  the  great  change — how  silently 
It  came,  un wrought  by  effort  of  mine  own ; 
And  said,  This  is  a  gift — a  glimpse  of  heaven  ! 
Why  cannot  I  abide  thus  ?  oh,  my  soul, 

12* 


138  OUR   CHANGING   FRAMES. 

Is  this  thy  rest  ?    Can  glimpses  satisfy — 

Glimpses  far  off,  though  never  more  obscured  ? 

They  might,  and  hold  thee  back  from  near  approach. 

"Pis  not  reward  then,  but  encouragement 

To  press  toward  that  reward !    Not  the  great  feast, 

But  a  faint  foretaste  of  it,  to  thee  sent 

To  cheer  thee,  drooping — for  the  Christian  state 

Here,  is  not  one  of  quietude,  but  war — 

War  that  shall  truce  nor  brief  cessation  know 

For  him  who  must  die  fighting — whose  release 

Shall  not  be  brought  by  friendly  hands  at  length, 

But  sent  upon  the  point  of  some  keen  shaft, 

That  erreth  not,  aimed  by  the  enemy. 


THE   SCULPTOE. 

SEE'ST  tliou,  high,  up  on  yon  unfinished  wall, 
A  small  rough  habitation  ?    There  it  hangs, 
Near  to  the  summit.     But  one  hostile  stroke, 
Well  dealt,  would  spread  its  ruins  far  beneath. 
That  is  the  place,  where  hidden  out  of  sight, 
The  Sculptor  slowly  shapes  the  rough-hewn  block, 
That  at  some  future  day,  his  labors  o'er, 
He  may  take  off  th'  unsightly  covering 
And  show  triumphant,  his  fair  statue  done ! 
So  toil  I,  shut  apart  and  separate, 
While  the  great  throng  unnoted  pass  me  by, 
Hoping  that  by  His  aid,  for  whom  my  task, 
I  may  form,  with  the  instruments  of  thought, 
Some  shape  that  shall  anew  embody  Truth 
Clothed  in  fair  dress,  or  words  of  flowery  garb 
That  may  the  passer's  gaze  draw  to  herself. 


MUSIC. 

I  PASSED  at  night  along  the  lonely  street, 

The  habitations  round  me  close  shut  up, 

Leaving  without  a  solitude.     Not  such 

As  gladdens  us  'midst  woods  and  sunny  fields, 

But  oftener  casts  a  shadow.     It  was  thus, 

As  at  a  thoughtful  pace  I  wandered  by 

Some  mansion — from  a  window  o'er  my  head 

Came  down  sweet  sounds.     I  paused,  and  'midst  the 

shade, 

Where  no  eye  reached  me,  listened  to  them  come. 
It  was  a  woman's  voice  that  rose  above 
Faint  swellings  from  an  organ  following  it. 
Some  hymn  she  sang,  though  not  the  utterance 
Of  words  could  I  discern — I  saw  not  face 
Nor  form,  nor  could  I  give  to  them  a  name. 
'Twas  but  those  notes — that  lovely  harmony 
Which  thus,  amid  the  stillness  of  the  night, 


MUSIC.  141 

Had,  as  it  were,  being.    Now  it  rose, 

Then  sank  again :  crept  softly  to  some  height, 

Then  with  full  gushings  hovered  o'er  the  ground — 

As  with  bright  wings  in  circles  here  and  there 

It  fluttered  round  my  heart — darted  afar, 

Came  near,  and  far  or  near  enrapt  me  still  I 

Oh,  what  a. sport  it  is,  I  said,  for  thee 

To  move  me  thus — to  ope  the  guarded  door 

That  shutteth  in  its  prison-house,  my  soul ! 

Who  gave  thee,  Music,  right  of  entrance  there — 

The  golden  key — yea,  taught  thee  how  to  touch 

Each  secret  spring  within,  where  covered  up 

From  man's  sight,  lie  susceptibilities 

Whose  buried  germs  are  hid  from  my  own  eye  ? 

How  weak  I  am !    How  round  me  do  exist 

Influences  that  have  power  to  o'ercome 

My  spirit's  fortressed  part !    Then  to  my  thought 

Words  mingled  with  the  strain  I  listened  to, 

And  thus  they  spoke.     I  was  left  on  the  earth 

When  Innocence  departed !    The  thin  air 

My  dwelling  is,  and  by  its  viewless  tides, 

Its  ripples,  and  soft  flowings,  I  am  born. 

In  every  place,  encircling  the  great  world, 

Is  found  my  presence.     I  inspire  the  birds 

In  solitary  forests — rivulets 


142  MUSIC. 

Are  taught  by  me  their  murmurs:  while  fierce  storms 

And  thunderings,  to  the  ear  attuned  so  deep, 

Strike  symphonies  sublime !    Man  hath  found  out 

The  secret  of  my  utterance,  and  hath  bound 

My  voices  to  his  service.     Oft  by  them 

He  doth  his  evil  deeds,  but  at  the  first 

It  was  not  so — my  birth-place  was  on  high. 

Nor  have  I  part  now  in  my  powers  thus  used, 

From  me  but  robbery !     I  still  exist 

Pure — unpolluted,  for  the  pure  in  heart. 

When  then,  with  measured  tread,  I  enter  in 

The  chambers  of  thy  soul,  'tis  but  to  strike 

My  harp  there  to  thanksgiving — to  send  up 

An  off 'ring  from  those  depths  reached  but  by  me: 

While  thou,  too,  as  the  sounds  reverberate 

Like  Heaven's  echoes,  shouldst  be  taught  to  look 

For  that  approaching  time  when,  brought  safe  there, 

I  shall  hymn  to  thee  in  thy  place  of  Eest! 


THE   DEEAM. 

THE  Poet  sat  alone  within  a  wood ; 

Great  trees  threw  round  about  him  thickest  shade ; 

The  sod  was  fresh  and  green  whereon  he  lay, 

While  at  his  feet  a  rivulet  flowed  by, 

Filling  the  place  with  murmurs.     Not  a  sound 

Other  than  of  its  gentle  voice  was  heard. 

It  was  deep  solitude,  yet  not  the  dark 

And  dreary  hermitage,  where  fancy  flies 

Often  when  we  name  solitude,  for  here 

Nature  put  on  her  gayest  dress,  and  wore 

Continual  smiles,  that  roused  not  sombre  thought, 

But  sympathy  of  gladness  and  delight. 

'Twas  here  the  poet  sat  and  gazed  around, 

Gath'ring  within  his  glance  no  other  things 

Than  every  eye  would  note  in  visible  forms, 

Yet  in  th'  effect  and  influence  on  his  heart 

Experiencing  more. 


144  THE    DREAM. 

For  many  years,  he  said,  thus  have  I  looked 
On  Nature,  and  have  ever  felt  there  was 
For  me  a  charm  among  her  outspread  works, 
Which  many  knew  not.     To  no  human  ear 
I  told  it,  for  the  doubt  of  a  response 
Imposeth  silence.     Nor  with  her  alone, 
Thus  'midst  her  visible  shapes  I  loved  to  stray, 
But  there  has  been  a  present  consciousness 
With  this  my  love  for  her,  of  looking  still 
Inward  upon  the  mind — noting  its  ways, 
Eather  than,  with  that  impulse  which  is  strong 
In  most,  to  take  my  part  in  the  world's  deeds. 
In  earlier  youth  with  these  came  soaring  thoughts 
Of  Fame,  which  easily  can  mount  and  reach 
In  one  brief  gladsome  flight,  what  years  of  toil 
And  climbing  steep  may  gain  not.     But  not  toil 
Nor  climbing  steep,  has  gained  this  height  for  me. 
In  the  mean  while  youth's  false  distorted  dreams 
Are  vanished,  and  before  the  goal  is  reached, 
I  have  been  taught  what  most  learn  only  there, 
How  false  Ambition's  promises — how  poor, 
But  famine  to  the  spirit,  her  reward. 
Yet  stand  I  where  I  did — here  is  my  place 
'Midst  nature,  and  within  the  teeming  mind, 
But  for  those  dreams  of  youth,  and  hopes  of  deeds 


THE   DREAM.  145 

Which,  if  not  evil,  sought  were  for  renown, 
I  have  now  resting  on  my  heart  the  sense 
Of  an  imposed  task — for  the  advance, 
Brilliant  and  smooth  of  the  triumphal  march, 
The  lowlier,  rougher  path  of  toil,  beset 
With  dangers,  travails,  temptings  by  the  way ; 
And  as  the  one  led  up  toward  that  renown, 
This  lowlier  way  seems  but  for  him  to  tread 
Who  would  his  Maker  serve,  loving  his  kind. 

Thus  mused  the  poet,  and  soliloquized, 
Using  great  freedom  'midst  the  rocks  and  stones, 
Which  were  his  chosen  companions.     Then  he  ceased 
And  gazed  about  him  with  the  same  delight 
That  he  had  gathered  from  them,  when  at  first 
He  did  discern  their  beauty :  for  to  him, 
Though  changeable  its  shades,  emotion  came, 
A  deep  perpetual  fount  at  Nature's  call, 
But  it  had  rather  been  to  him  of  late 
Mingled  and  clouded,  for  the  morn  of  life 
Was  gliding  by,  had  come  unto  the  noon, 
And  while  these  secret  sources  of  delight 
Still  gushed  and  offered  to  his  lips  their  drink, 
They  had  done  nothing  more.     Alone  he  stood, 
In  purpose  and  accomplishment — he  seemed 
Sep'rate  in  all  received,  and  all  conferred. 
13 


146  THE   DREAM. 

It  happened  now,  after  a  time  of  thought, 
That  partly  had  been  spoken  forth  in  words, 
And  partly  uttered  not,  th'  uplifted  arm 
Whereon  his  head  had  rested,  gently  fell 
Along  the  ground,  and  all  his  form  stretched  out 
Beneath  the  shade,  on  bed  of  softest  grass, 
Sunk  into  sleep. 

Upon  a  branch  o'erhead 

He  dreamed  a  bird  with  crimson  plumage  clothed, 
Alighted.     Void  of  fear  or  dread  it  was, 
While,  as  birds  do,  it  stood  and  smoothed  its  coat, 
Uttering  its  note  at  times.     The  poet  saw, 
So  near  it  was,  that  mingled  with  the  hue 
O'erspreading  most  its  form,  were  separate  spots 
Of  other  tints  and  colors,  setting  off 
By  contrast  what  would  else  have  dimmed  itself. 
How  wonderful,  he  said,  that  on  a  thing 
So  low  down  in  th'  extended  scale  of  life 
Should  be  displayed  such  beauty !     Not  a  shape 
Simple  and  by  itself  to  please  the  eye, 
But  wondrous  combination.     In  a  space 
My  hand  may  cover,  see  what  skill  and  art 
Have  grouped,  as  'twere,  and  fixed  like  rays  of  light, 
Hues  that  each  paints  the  other — and  how  rich, 
How  affluent  in  its  power  to  adorn 


THE   DREAM.  147 

Must  He  be  who  thus  scatters  beauty  forth, 

Not  to  be  seen  but  hidden !     Now  it  seemed 

In  this  strange  dream,  that  when  the  poet  ceased, 

The  little  bird,  scarce  spreading  out  its  wings, 

Alighted  yet  more  near  him,  and  thus  spoke: 

I  am  sent  to  thee  this  bright  summer's  day 

From  off  the  nest  where  lay  my  unfledged  young, 

To  pledge  thee  my  obedience.     'Midst  the  woods 

My  dwelling  is — upon  the  topmost  boughs 

I  watch  the  early  sun.     From  the  mown  field 

I  gather  grains  the  harvestman  hath  left. 

My  downy  nest,  hidden  by  clumps  of  leaves, 

The  eye  of  man  sees  not.    Yet  as  I  sit, 

From  off  its  lofty  perch,  the  forest  wide 

Lies  'neath  my  glance.     Amid  the  feathered  world, 

My  foes  and  friends,  I  live — the  eagle  soars 

Above  me,  and  the  wakened  owl  hoots  out 

All  night  from  the  same  branch.     Of  all  these  things, 

"Will  I  confess  and  tell  into  thine  ear, 

For  I  am  as  thy  servant. — Then  it  seemed 

That  ere  the  slumberer  well  had  taken  in 

This  wonderful  address,  or  quite  could  note 

More  than  its  import,  at  his  feet  a  voice, 

As  from  the  surface  of  the  murmuring  brook 

Arose :    Upon  the  dry  and  parched  ground 


148  THE   DREAM. 

Men  walk,  and  'midst  the  forest's  screening  shade 
Eoam  beasts  that  panting  flee  the  summer's  sun. 
But  in  the  crystal  current  do  we  dwell, 
Darting  'mong  depths  and  watery  caves  beneath, 
O'er  the  cool  pebbles,  and  'midst  hidden  flowers. 
Nor  to  the  pent  up  space  between  these  banks 
Is  bound  our  life,  but  as  this  narrow  stream 
Seeks  the  wide  river,  and  it  in  its  turn 
Flows  to  the  sea,  so  we  by  kindred  ties,  • 
And  by  far  journeys  that  we  sometimes  make, 
Dwell  in  and  call  our  own  appropriate  sphere 
The  whole  wide  world  of  waters.     Of  their  depths, 
Of  multitudes  there  swimming,  can  I  speak, 
And  all  this  will  I  tell  thee,  being  bound 
Truly  unto  thy  service. — As  the  voice 
Here  ceased,  the  poet  saw  a  silvery  flash 
Beneath  the  stream,  dart  down  till  lost  to  sight. 
Not  long  he  mused,  when,  lifting  up  his  eyes, 
With  slow  majestic  step,  lo,  on  his  dream 
A  Lion  came.     Still  in  his  senseless  sleep, 
Keeping  the  fears  of  more  skilled  wakefulness, 
He  trembling  sought  to  fly ;  but  terror  bound 
Each  limb,  until  his  dreaded  visitor 
Drew  near,  and  silent  stood.     His  shaggy  mane 
Hung  like  the  dismal  locks  of  fabled  Night. 


THE   DREAM.  149 

His  yellow  eye  gleamed  not  as  with  the  ire 
Of  the  dumb  beast  alone,  but  seemed  to  burn 
The  very  fire  of  hatred,  as  if  lurked 
Some  spirit  of  intenser  life  beneath : 
Though  I  be  crowned  not  in  thy  sight,  he  said, 
I  am  a  monarch  !     All  the  pathless  wastes 
Of  the  far  earth  I  hold  beneath  my  sway. 
The  gloomy  desert  trembles  at  my  voice. 
I  tread  the  Niger's  reedy  banks;  last  night 
A  hunter,  slumbering  by  his  watch-fire,  lay — 
I  leaped  upon  him !     Where  the  antelope 
Steals  in  at  evening  to  the  lonely  spring 
I  couch  unseen.     Through  the  deep  wilderness, 
In  caverns,  forests  deep  and  solitudes, 
Where  man  hath  not  been,  nor  may  ever  be, 
Are  my  familiar  haunts.     Yet  of  them  all 
Will  I  narrate  into  thy  listening  ear, 
Nor  harm  thee — I  thy  suppliant  am  come. 
The  slumb'rer  feared  no  more ;  and  to  the  lone 
And  dreary  wilderness,  or  wheresoe'er 
It  was  from  whence  he  came  upon  his  dream, 
The  king  betook  himself. 

Not  wakened  yet, 

The  poet  wondered  at  the  things  he  saw, 
And  deemed  them  real.     The  bird,  the  fish,  the  beast, 


150  THE   DREAM. 

Each  speaking  with  intelligent  voice,  he  heard, 

And  in  his  thought  summoned  them  back  again. 

While,  as  he  meditated,  from  the  height 

Above,  he  saw  descending  'midst  the  boughs 

That  interwoven  were  to  o'ershield  him, 

A  silvery  Cloud.    From  the  far  azure  depths 

It  seemed  to  fall  until  near  by  his  feet 

Suspended — not  quite  stooping  to  the  ground, 

Unmoved  it  hung.     Within,  as  through  a  mist, 

Now  as  he  gazed,  he  saw  a  shadowy  form : 

Its  dimmed  imperfect  shape  awakened  thoughts 

Of  beauty  and  of  majesty.     A  voice 

Came  forth  from  it  with  utterance,  speaking  thus : 

My  place  is  in  the  air.    At  times  I  rest 

When  all  the  winds  are  still,,  far  as  thy  sight 

Can  note  my  form  ere  lost  in  the  deep  blue. 

At  morn  I  do  receive  th'  ascending  rays, 

Sent  heralds  of  the  sun.    At  silent  eve 

I  wait  upon  him  fleeing  from  the  west, 

And  stand  'midst  the  rich  audience  round  his  throne, 

Clothed  with  his  glory.     On  the  sultry  day, 

I  float  above  the  parched  fields  of  grain, 

Sprinkling  them  with  soft  showers,  or  I  come 

Eobed  in  the  mantle  of  the  threat'ning  storm 

Frowning  and  dark  with  tempests.     Then  dart  down 


THE   DKEAM.  151 

My  fiery  arrows,  lighting  into  flame 

The  farmer's  gathered  store.     Or  on  the  top 

Of  some  old  forest  patriarch  they  fall, 

And  rend  him  to  the  root.     The  ruddy  cheek 

Blanches  to  hear  my  voice,  and  trembling  crowds 

Breathe  freer  when  upon  the  howling  gale 

I  flee,  and  bare  the  azure  vault  again. 

Last  eve  a  venturous  voyager  of  the  air, 

Upheld  by  silken  globe,  far  from  the  earth 

Ascended,  and  while  neath  the  stars  I  slept 

Passed  through  my  vapory  form ;  he  little  dreamt 

Of  hidden  sparks  about  him  lurking  there, 

That  with  a  touch  had  severed  each  thin  cord, 

And  cast  him  headlong  through  the  abyss  beneath ! 

Yet  do  I  stoop  thus  from  those  fields  of  air 

To  know  thy  bidding. 

Lingering  yet  a  time 

Amid  th'  unbroken  stillness,  then  the  Cloud, 
As  borne  by  spirits  on  their  silent  wings, 
Kose  out  of  sight.     The  poet  turning  now, 
Beheld  beside  him,  as  it  seemed  a  form 
That  shrunk  back  from  his  presence.    As  before, 
He  trembled  at  his  unknown  visitor, 
This  one  recoiled  from  him.     At  once  made  bold 
By  witnessed  fear,  the  dreamer  raised  his  hand, 


152  THE   DREAM. 

But  where  he  sought  to  touch,  there  was  no  flesh 
Or  substance  palpable.     Though  thus  unclothed, 
Thus  spake  the  airy  shape:  I  hold  a  life 
Immortal.     I  am  housed  in  the  flesh 
When  in  my  proper  dwelling,  until  death 
Opens  the  gates  of  the  eternal  world. 
I  am  the  spirit  that  doth  quicken  man 
With  hopes  and  fears,  with  love  and  hatred — all 
That  moves  to  thought  or  deed.     Close  covered  up 
Within  his  breast  I  hide,  ev'n  from  the  eye 
That  looks  with  tenderest  love.     Of  all  I  dread 
And  most  abhor  the  light,  yet  thus  unveiled, 
With  power  to  change  "no  feeling,  or  to  hide, 
Thy  prisoner  I  come. 

As  the  voice  ceased, 

The  form  from  whence  it  came,  to  the  one  sense 
That  apprehended  it  alone,  was  lost ; 
And  all  the  scene  where  now  the  poet  lay, 
Eeturned  to  its  first  solitude,  shone  fair 
Upon  his  shrouded  vision,  as  if  sleep 
Still  bound  him  not.     Yet,  though  thus  much  he  saw 
Of  real  things,  within  his  dreaming  thought 
Moved  more.     For  presently  another  form, 
Unlike  that  gone,  drew  near.     'Twas  of  such  height 
As  man  attains  when  most  with  grace  endowed. 


THE   DREAM.  153 

White,  flowing  garments  hung  in  many  folds 
Down  to  his  feet.     The  hair  was  of  that  hue 
Which  men  call  golden.     From  the  downcast  eyes 
Fell  influences  whose  unseen  source  was  Love. 
The  features  all  in  harmony  were  joined, 
Uniting  gentlest  looks  with  majesty. 
The  hue  upon  the  forehead  and  the  cheek 
Not  marbled  all,  partnered  with  blooming  tint, 
Yet  such  as  added  more,  not  tainted,  purity. 
There  was  no  ray  or  circling  band  of  light — 
It  was  as  man  made  perfect :    Thou  this  day, 
It  said,  art  brought,  0  poet,  to  thy  place. 
Those  visioned  shapes  that  on  thy  dream  arose, 
As  by  a  figure,  tell  that  nature's  forms 
And  the  soul's  secret  depths  shall  be  revealed 
In  such  large  measure  that  thou  mayst  unfold 
Unto  thy  fellow  men,  things  hid  before. 
This  unearned  priv'lege  hath  been  given  thee, 
Not  to  enrich  ambition— thou  art  called 
To  teach  thy  fellows.     Trials  thee  await, 
Nor  shalt  thou  draw  from  thy  peculiar  lot 
More  comfort  than  he  doth  who  serves  his  Lord 
Within  the  lowliest  place :  his  truest  peace 
Descends  from  Him  for  whom  he  lab'reth — thine 
Must  come  thence  too.     I  would  thee  undeceive 


154  THE   DREAM. 

Thus  on  the  threshold,  from  those  promises 

Which  make  a  difference,  parting  thee  from  him: 

Ye  do  divide  one  service ;  if  thou  art 

Faithful  like  him,  thou  hast  of  his  reward. 

Go  forth,  then,  to  thy  work.     Stoop  not  to  glean 

Fame  for  thyself,  or  way-side  sprung  renown ; 

While  thou  dost  show  its  dangers  and  its  steeps, 

The   Path  of  Life   strew  thou  with  Heaven-plucked 

flowers ! 

Thou  hast  so  long  to  toil — so  many  days 
Ere  thou  shalt  be  called  hence.     Fill  full  thy  time. 
With  true  endeavor — what  thou  find'st  to  do, 
Do  with  thy  might. 


THE  INTERIOR  OF  THE  HEART. 

IN  the  still  night,  as  I  lay  on  my  bed, 

Thoughts  from  the  day  still  preventing  sweet  sleep, 

Though  she  waited   by  my  couch  with  her  veil   of 

Forgetfulness, 
Willing  with  gentle  hand  to  cast  it  o'er  my  wearied 

form, 

One*  came  to  my  chamber  holding  a  burning  light; 
He  raised  it  aloft  while  he  looked  down  upon  me, 
And  motionless  stood  gazing  as  to  view  mine  inmost 

soul. 

In  that  strange  interview  as  between  the  voiceless  dead, 
Fear  bound  my  trembling  limbs,  and  troubled  thoughts 

my  tongue. 
I  marvelled  whom  he  was,  at  the  dead  of  night  thus 

coming, 

*  The  Spirit  that  convicts  the  heart. 


156      THE  INTERIOR  OF  THE  HEART. 

Unknown  and  uninvited  to  my  secret  place  of  rest. 

But  soon  I  saw  him  clothed  with  majesty, 

Such  spotless  garments  and  celestial  grace, 

The  questionings  of  my  heart  were  turned  to  awe. 

Not  of  the  earth,  then  said  I,  but  from  where, 

The  heavens  veil  from  my  sight — thou  art  come  down 

To  me  a  worm.     Command  or  lead  the  way  ; 

Thou  rul'st  the  soul — adoring  I  obey. 

It  was  along  some  unknown*  way  we  passed, 

Once  beautiful  I  judged,  but  blighted  now ; 

There  hung  the  withered  vine,  its  clusters  dead, 

The  olive  cast  her  fruit  upon  the  earth. 

I  saw  there  multitudes  of  faded  flowers 

Parched  as  it  had  been  in  their  summer's  dress, 

The  Lily  of  the  Valley,  and  the  Eose 

That  bloomed  of  old  on  Sharon.     No  sweet  sound 

Of  singing  birds  came  out  from  the  dead  boughs, 

Or  insects'  voices  from  the  parched  ground. 

I  seemed  to  walk  in  autumn,  but  it  was 

An  autumn  more  intense  than  that  which  strips 

From  nature's  form  her  delicate  summer  robes 

Ere  winter  cometh  leading  on  his  storms. 

*.  Our  first  serious  thoughts. 


THE   INTERIOR   OF   THE   HEART.  157 

Soon  came  we  where  an  archway  through  a  rock 

Eose  o'er  our  path,  spanning  two  brazen  gates; 

The  stone  frowned  down  with  look  impregnable. 

As  we  approached,  beneath  its  gloomy  shade 

We  saw  one*  watching.     Covered  o'er  with  mail 

He  sat  as  of  the  rock,  immovable. 

While  hidden  yet  from  sight,  our  footsteps  fell 

Echoing  afar  off  on  his  list'ning  ear ; 

He  rose  with  lifted  shield  and  glittering  sword, 

But  as  we  came  full  on  his  view,  he  fled. 

Then,  drawing  near,  my  guide  knocked  thrice  upon 

The  rugged  brass.     His  strokes  resounded  loud, 

But  from  within  no  answer  came;  at  which 

I  fearful  said :  How  shall  we  enter  here, 

Seeing  that  there  are  none  to  welcome  us  ? 

He  answered  not,  but  turned  with  looks  of  love 

That  did  illumine  all  my  clouded  heart, 

Then  led  to  where  a  little  earth  removed, 

Laid  bare  beneath  my  feet  a  secret  spring.f 

'Twas  slight,  and  to  mine  eyes  regarding  it, 

Seemed  powerless ;  but  when  by  his  command 

*  The  sinner's  fear  of  conversion. 

t  Prayer,  as  taught  by  the  Holy  Spirit. 

14 


158  THE   INTERIOR   OF  THE   HEART. 

I  touched  it,  lo  1  the  pond'rous  doors  gave  way, 
Admitting  us  unharmed ! 

Now  following  at  his  side  on  entering, 

I  saw  he  covered  o'er  the  lamp  he  held, 

So  that  its  rays  fell  on  my  path  no  more. 

And  then  at  once  such  darkness  shrouded  me, 

I  was  bereft  of  sight,  and  stood  as  lost, 

Discerning  naught,  nor  knowing  where  I  stood. 

But  soon  uncov'ring  it  in  part  again 

There  stretched  each  way  a  dim,  unmeasured  plain. 

No  wall  or  boundary  was  visible 

On  either  side ;  but  all  around  and  above 

Thick  shadows  deepened  into  utter  night. 

Far  in  the  centre,  like  a  taper's  spot 

Gleamed  a  faint  light.     Thither  the  Angel  led, 

And  through  the  wide  obscurity  we  passed 

Like  spirits  through  the  silent  realms  of  death. 

As  we  came  near  the  light  more  bright  it  grew, 

And  flickerings  from  it  fell  about  our  feet. 

Then  I  beheld  'twas  from  a  lofty  fire 

That  burned  upon  an  altar  in  the  midst. 

Beside  it  there  was  One*  of  fiend-like  shape, 

And  hue  dark  as  the  night,  save  where  the  blaze 

*  The  Evil  Spirit  who  reigns  in  the  natural  heart. 


THE   INTEEIOR   OF   THE   HEAET.  159 

Keflected,  lit  up  all  one  side  his  form. 

As  we  approached,  not  seeing  us,  he  stood, 

And  with  his  wings  slow  waving,  fanned  the  flames. 

They  rose  in  crimson  wreaths,  illuming 

A  deep,  wide  circle  round  and  over  him — 

A  lurid  chasm  in  the  black  abyss. 

Here  paused  we,  and  I  heard  his  voice  thus  cry : 

Burn,  burn,  forever  burn  I  no  other  light 

Than  thine,  dread  quenchless  fire,  e'er  enter  here ! 

I  love  this  gloom — all  evil  do  I  love, 

All  good  I  hate !     Then  said  I  to  my  guide : 

Is  this  a  mansion  in  that  dreadful  place, 

"Whither  the  souls  condemned  are  sent,  of  those 

Who  die  on  earth  unreconciled  to  Grod  ? 

He  answered :     From  the  field  first  bear  the  sheaves, 

Then  seek  to  find  the  fruits  within  them  hid. 

Now,  as  we  silent  gazed,  the  fallen  Fiend, 

Touched  by  an  inward  dread  instinctive,  turned, 

And  as  he  turned  beheld  the  Angel  stand. 

He  trembled  at  the  beauteous,  lovely  sight, 

Then  drawing  back,  as  if  with  horror  filled, 

Fell  prostrate,  and  with  wings  uplifted  wide, 

Did  cover  all  his  black  and  hideous  length. 

I  looked  upon  him  prostrate.     At  my  side 

The  Angel  stood  in  radiant  majesty.    , 


160  THE   INTERIOR   OF   THE   HEART. 

I  thought,  O  Sin,  how  fathomless  the  depths 
Whereto  thou'rt  fallen !  Holiness,  thy  garb, 
How  beautiful,  worn  or  in  Hell  or  Heaven  ! 

Toward  the  deeper  darkness  that  all  round 
Set  limit  to  my  sight,  the  Angel  turned. 
His  lamp  shed  but  dim  light,  not  going  before 
Nor  following  after  us  with  piercing  ray, 
But  casting  o'er  our  pathway  a  pale  beam, 
Lighting  each  step.    I  followed  wondering 
Nor  without  dread  upon  the  unknown  track, 
But  with  me  was  no  strength  to  turn  or  stay; 
Drawn  helpless,  I  was  taught  there  is  a  Power 
That  without  visible  bonds  or  seen  restraint, 
Eeigns  as  its  monarch,  o'er  the  soul  supreme. 
Now  came  we  to  a  broad  and  winding  way, 
That  upward  led  by  many  steps  ascending. 
All  ruinous  it  was,  as  though  untrod, 
Save  by  the  viewless,  wasting  steps  of  years, 
Yet  by  the  vestiges  of  grandeur  there, 
I  knew  'twas  worthy  once  the  tread  of  kings. 
As  we  approached  its  summit,  a  wide  plain 
Stretched  in  a  measureless  circle  on  our  view, 
And  o'er  it  ghost-like  forms*  from  far  and  near 

*  Our  natural  evil  passions  and  dispositions. 


THE   INTERIOR   OF   THE   HEART.  161 

Fled  through  the  dim  light  to  the  deeper  gloom. 

I  walked  upon  this  plain  till  in  its  midst 

Ope'd  a  vast  void — and  through  it  looking  down 

I  saw  the  altar — he  who  tended  it 

Was  risen  again,  feeding  its  sleepless  fires. 

Thence  following  the  Angel,  turning  back 

Through  darkness  I  was  led  until  a  wall 

Like  to  the  barriers  of  some  fortressed  rock 

Eose  up  before  us,  limiting  our  steps. 

Against  this  wall  my  guide  held  up  his  lamp. 

I  saw  where  once  it  had  been  covered  o'er 

With  fair  Inscriptions  ;*  but  their  import  now 

Was  lost  to  every  eye.     Dimmed  by  the  dust 

Of  ages  and  the  erasures  of  decay, 

I  could  interpret  or  discern  no  word 

On  all  its  sullied  and  mysterious  page. 

Then  said  I,  May  I  know  concerning  this, 

Which  now  thou  showest  me  ?     He  answered :  These 

were  words  of  Wisdom,  writ  with  flowing  gold. 

Thou'st  heard  how  glorious  in  days  of  old 

The  Temple  shone  from  Zion's  sacred  top, 

Arrayed  in  Ophir's  costly  offerings — 

This  was  more  glorious ! — the  Temple's  dress 

*  The  Law  of  God  as  originally  written  on  our  hearts, 

14* 


162  THE   INTERIOR   OF  THE   HEART. 

Was  of  the  earth,  put  on  by  mortal  hands ; 
Here  as  a  garment  heavenly  Truth  .was  spread — 
Spread  by  the  hand  of  God !     The  treasures  there 
Shone  in  dumb  splendor — from  this  place  they  spoke 
With  an  inspired  tongue !     But  now  their  voice 
Goeth  forth  no  more — the  glory  is  departed  ! 

Now  passing  on  we  walking  came  to  where 
A  Beautiful  Garment*  lay  spread  o'er  our  path. 
'Twas  as  though  he  who  once  was  clothed  with  it 
Had  by  the  hand  of  death  been  plucked  away, 
Leaving  it  as  he  died.     I  lingered  here. 
The  angel  said,  See  that  thou  touch  it  not, 
But  look  upon  it — mark  it  well.     His  lamp 
Then  shed  forth  brighter  rays,  and  near  my  feet 
I  saw  a  snowy  robe.     Upon  its  neck 
There  hung  a  clasp  made  of  one  goodly  pearl ; 
No  other  ornament  through  all  its  length 
It  bore,  save  its  own  pure  and  radiant  hue. 
Now,  as  I  gazed,  a  change  came  over  it ; 
Slowly  it  grew  transparent  to  my  sight; 
Then  I  beheld  this  robe  had  been  a  covering, 
For  underneath,  encompassed  by  its  folds, 

*  Man's  original  Innocence. 


THE   INTERIOR   OF   THE   HEART.  163 

A  suit  of  armor*  glittered  in  the  light. 

The  breast-plate  undimmed,  shone  like  burnished  gold; 

The  girdle  lay  as  it  had  circled  him 

"With  strength,  who  wore  it.     By  its  side  I  saw 

The  helmet  covered  o'er  with  rainbow  hues; 

The  shield  was  small  and  white,  as  when  a  cloud 

Floateth  a  spot  of  silver  in  the  sky. 

Then  while  I  looked  on  it,  I  longing  said, 

Oh !  dress  to  be  desired,  would  that  my  soul 

Might  here  disrobe  of  clay  and  put  it  on ! 

The  Angel  answered:   With  an  eye  of  flesh 

Thou  lookest.     Beautiful  in  truth  it  seems, 

And  yet  its  heavenly  temper  hath  all  gone. 

Lay  now  thine  hand  upon  it — know  its  strength. 

I  stooped,  and  at  my  touch  it  fell  to  dust ! 

As  some  once  cherished  form  that  long  hath  lain 

Hid  in  the  grave,  yet  marred  not  by  decay, 

Keeping  the  freshness  of  an  early  death ; 

So  that  when  one  with  filial  love  doth  come, 

To  reincase  the  treasured  bones,  he  looks 

Startled,  astonished,  on  a  father's  face, 

And  ere  he  mark  it  well,  the  features,  touched 

By  th'  air,  dissolve  to  shapeless  earth  again. — 

*  The  protection  that  was  in  man's  original  Innocence. 


. 

164:  THE   INTERIOR   OF  THE   HEART. 


So  fell  this  Beautiful  Garment  from  my  sight ! 
The  eye  still  sought  for  it,  but  found  alone, 
A  heap  of  thinnest  dust !     Over  my  heart, 
As  a  thick  cloud,  a  heavy  sadness  came. 

For  a  brief  space,  the  Angel  said,  I  lead 

Yet  farther  on;  follow  thou  in  my  steps. 

Then  o'er  another  wide  and  ruinous  way 

We  passed,  ascending  to  another  plain 

Like  that  just  left.     Here,  as  I  walked,  I  saw 

The  forms  of  many  harps.*    Veiled  by  the  shade, 

Their  outlines  seemed  most  fair,  as  though  the  strings 

Might  utter  harmony  in  every  voice, 

From  the  faint  whisper,  delicate — scarce  heard — 

Which  as  the  tint  of  early  dawn  delights, 

Unto  those  deeper  tones  that  thrill  the  soul 

Like  richer  splendors  when  departs  the  day. 

I  looking  on  them,  said :    Thou  who  dost  know 

The  songs  of  angels — is  there  not  one  here 

That  thou  mayst  strike  to  cheer  my  drooping  heart  ? 

Then,  as  before,  his  lamp  shed  brighter  rays. 

The  harps  that  in  the  gloom  appeared  so  fair, 

Were  ruinous  with  decay :  as  the  light  shone, 

*  Praise,  as  offered  by  the  unfallen  heart. 


THE   INTEKIOR   OF   THE   HEART.  165 

From  off  their  tops,  with  sable  wings  outspread, 
Flew  startled  birds — unclean  birds  of  the  night, 
That  rested  there  unseen.     The  delicate  chords 
"Were  all  enwrapt  with  damp  and  clinging  mould ; 
Entwined  about  them  serpents,  now  disturbed, 
Threatened  with  lifted  heads  and  eyes  of  fire. 
When  I  found  utterance  I  trembling  cried : 
What  wreck  is  this  through  which  thou  leadest  me, 
Where  darkness  and  corruption  have  come  o'er 
Such  exquisite  things,  sitting  in  triumph  thus 
'Midst  ruins,  not  like  those  of  earth — the  place 
Of  their  inheritance — but  throned  supreme, 
In  some  fair  mansion  once  of  heaven's  domain  ? 
He,  speaking  not,  led  on  with  rapid  step 
Till  by  a  lofty  chasm's  brink  we  paused. 
From  here  I  saw  as  in  the  depths  of  Hell 
Once  more  the  flaming  altar.     From  it  came 
A  red  glare  struggling  up  through  the  abyss, 
Scarce  to  our  dizzy  height.     Look  now  above, 
The  angel  said.     I  lifted  up  my  eyes 
And  saw,  as  'twere,  the  rayless  countenance 
Of  Night  spread  over  us.     While  I  thus  stood, 
He,  turning  to  me,  said,  Light  once  shone  down 
As  a  pure  flood  where  thou  art  gazing  now ; 
Its  full,  descending  glories  then  were  met 


166  THE   INTERIOR   OF   THE   HEART. 

By  kindred  beams  that  rose  up  from  these  depths. 
Where  now  thou  seest  Sin's  deadly  minister 
Dwelt  One  most  holy.     Those  dark  forms  who  fled 
From  out  thy  sight  'midst  thicker  gloom  to  hide, 
Where  clothed  in  robes  like  that  which  fell  to  dust. 
They  feared  not  then  to  walk  before  God's  sight, 
For  he  had  made  them  pure,  and  in  his  work 
Beheld  no  fault.     Then  did  these  harps  resound 
To  their  sweet  songs — this  place  was  near  to  heaven ; 
They  dwelt  beneath  heaven's  light,  amid  its  peace. 
Such  had  their  blissful  lot  forever  been, 
But  that  they  turned  from  Him  who  did  prepare 
This  blest  abode  and  called  them  into  life, 
Heirs  of  its  joy. 

Shorn  of  all  strength  to  harm 
The  steadfast  soul,  thither  temptation  came. 
The  Tempter  stood  without ;  he  might  not  rend 
Those  strong  ethereal  bolts  that  power  divine 
Had  placed  to  guard  these  portals,  but  his  voice 
Sent  in,  did  mingle  with  the  notes  of  praise, 
Pleading  for  entrance.     Then  these  spirits  heard, 
And  listening,  believed.     They  of  themselves 
Unbarred  the  gates  no  enemy  might  force — 
Oh,  what  estate  was  then  to  sorrow  given ! 
God's  Spirit  from  the  altar  took  his  flight. 
The  Tempter  entered — into  chains  he  cast 


THE   INTERIOR   OF   THE   HEART.  167 

Those  who  admitted  him,  and  they  henceforth 
Became  his  slaves :  yet  not  unwillingly, 
Polluted  by  his  presence,  with  his  thoughts 
Poured  in  their  minds,  they  learned  to  love  his  ways. 
Behold  what  Sin  hath  wrought — they  who  once  basked 
In  heaven's  own  glorious  beams,  now  hate  the  light, 
And  it  is  taken  from  them.     Here  shut  up 
With  one  they  love  to  serve,  with  him  they  dwell 
And  work  all  evil.     Yet  I  leave  them  not 
To  perish  thus,  the  fate  of  their  own  choice. 
Even  in  this  place  alone,  my  Witness*  dwells, 
Bearing  his  Lamp  new-lighted  at  my  throne, 
But  heeded  not,  and  often  quite  cast  out. 
Sometimes  I  come  and  speak  the  words  of  Life, 
Then  if  they  hear,  I  bind  the  Fiend  in  chains, 
Open  their  windows  once  again  to  light, 
Which  shall  at  length  shine  in  more  glorious  streams 
Than  e'er  they  fell.     For  that  day  draweth  near 
When  from  each  soul  that  hath  returned  to  me, 
All  stain  and  spot  of  guilt  shall  be  quite  purged, 
And  holiness  and  joy  shall  fill  it  full.  | 
But  when  they  will  not  hear,  I  do  at  last 
Call  hence  my  Witness,  and  myself  no  more 
Return  to  them,  but  leave  them  to  their  doom. 

*  Conscience. 


THE    THINGS   AROUND    US. 

.     4 
A  *  4   • 

WE  stand  upon  a  point.     Our  native  world 

Spreading  around  us.    In  our  daily  walks 

From  youth  to  manhood,  and  thence  to  the  grave, 

A  narrow  circle,  for  the  most  doth  bound 

And  limit  our  progression.     While  I  seek 

At  morn  th'  unfinished  task,  and  through  the  hours 

That  bring  round  eve  again,  toil  standing  there, 

All  Nature  through  her  vast  domain  presents 

To  an  All-Seeing  Eye  her  various  forms, 

Perfecting  those  yet  on  the  forward  march 

Of  slow  development — abating  those 

Which  having  reached  their  height,  tend  toward  decay. 

The  infinite  procession  still  moves  on 

Before  Him  who  first  ranged  each  atom  there 

In  order,  and  gave  motion  to  the  whole. 

Now  in  the  forests,  gloomy,  dark,  and  deep, 
That  girt  the  burning  zone,  what  wonders  spread 


THE   THINGS  AROUND   US.  169 

All  hidden  from  man's  view !     The  lofty  Palm, 

That  for  a  century  hath  been  young  and  green, 

Lifteth  its  head  and  watcheth  o'er  a  scene, 

Peopled  yet  solitary — trodden  not 

By  foot  of  man,  yet  beautiful  to  the  sense, 

Beyond  where  lieth  unadorned  his  home. 

Behold  the  plumage  of  that  fearless  bird, 

Where  all  the  sombre  colors  are  left  out 

And  only  those  more  gorgeous,  brightened  up 

To  their  intensest  lustre,  gathered  are. 

No  beauty  loving  eye  e'er  looked  on  it. 

Amid  this  loneliness  it  rears  its  brood, 

Encircling  the  veiled  scene.     It  lives  and  dies 

With  millions  that  may  not  be  numbered,  thus, 

Useless — a  very  waste,  unless  there  be 

Some  other  eye  than  man's  that  loves  the  sight. 

Yon  tree  that  bendeth  to  its  golden  fruit. 

Dropping  the  ripest,  dotting  o'er  the  grass, 

To  man  yields  no  repast.     His  hand  stretched  forth, 

Never  plucked  one.     They  rot  unwanted  here, 

While  he  on  many  a  bare  waste  starves  and  dies. 

Far  northward,  'gainst  some  towering  wall  of  ice 
And  o'er  the  snowy  steppe,  th'  Aurora's  light 
Falls  like  the  glimmer  of  a  distant  flame. 
15 


170  THE   THINGS   AROUND  US. 

Look  at  its  fountains  bright  and  jets  of  fire, 

Leaping  and  falling — how  the  flashes  chase 

The  shadows  that  would  shroud  their  field  of  sky ! 

Now  at  the  zenith  meeting,  all  its  form 

Like  to  some  monarch  putteth  on  a  crown. 

The  lonely  Laplander  drawn  by  his  deer 

Swift  through  the  polar  night,  beholds  the  scene, 

Or  he,  some  stranger  there  from  temperate  climes 

Stands  on  the  silent  deck  and  thinks  of  home. 

O'er  the  waste  desert  where  no  foot-print  lies, 
Or  breathes  a  living  thing,  th'  unclouded  sun 
Hangs  at  meridian  height.    Bare,  outstretched  sands 
Eeturn  his  rays,  and  meeting  o'er  the  ground, 
Beams  falling  and  ascending  parch  the  air. 
Look !  where  th'  horizon  reaches  toward  the  east, 
Level  to  its  verge — riseth  a  yellow  mist ! 
Red  clouds  spring  up  like  wing'd  forms  from  the  earth 
And  shroud  the  sky  I — it  comes,  the  dread  Simoom ! 
From  outspread,  burning  deserts  doth  it  come, 
Wrapt  in  its  lurid  mantle,  breathing  death. 
Oh,  mighty  One,  why  stalkest  thou  forth  here, 
Where  there  are  none  to  fear  thee? — not  a  leaf, 
With  its  green  fluttering  doth  resist  thy  sway ! 
Here  let  thy  path  be  still,  while  we  will  praise 


THE   THINGS   AROUND   US.  171 

The  Power  that  hems  thee  in  these  lonely  wastes, 
Where  thy  swift  desolating  march  shall  be 
Harmless — a  prisoned  wrath  that  cannot  hurt. 

Lo !  there  are  fruitful  fields  that  bud  and  bloom, 

"While  burns  the  desert  and  congeals  the  pole. 

This  moment  starts  the  tender  shoot,  or  bursts 

The  blossom  all  along  the  outstretched  boughs, 

Till  they  seem  mantled  in  tints  of  the  dawn. 

Kich  valleys,  where  once  sprang  the  rank,  wild  grass, 

Now  bring  forth  food  for  man.     All  in  their  midst, 

With  many  a  curve,  so  length'ning  out  their  track, 

Refreshing  waters  run.     The  mossy  wheel 

Turns  dripping  round — the  fearless  sunburnt  child 

Stands  on  the  grassy  brink,  watching  his  line, 

Or  draws  exulting  forth  the  tiny  prey. 

Now  comes  the  loaded  wain — it  stops  beneath 

The  lofty  portal — swift  up  to  its  height 

Are  borne  the  bursting  sacks.     Or,  farther  off', 

With  many  a  shout,  the  odorous,  new-mown  hay 

Rolls  in  a  vast  load  through  the  great  barn-door. 

Forever  rolls  the  sea.     Man  comes  and  goes, 
The  individual  soul  lost  in  the  sum 
Of  a  vast  generation.     It  in  turn 


172  THE  THINGS   AROUND  US. 

Is  swallowed  up  'midst  many  that  do  pass 

In  swift  succession.     Every  living  thing, 

Beast,  bird,  and  all  those  fixed  inanimate  forms, 

Which  hold  life's  hid,  mysterious  principle, 

Have  their  appointed  time  to  wane  and  die. 

But  yet  the  ocean  tosseth,  bathing  still 

Its  wide-stretched  boundaries,  that  touch  every  clime, 

Knowing  not  diminution,  loss  nor  rest. 

I  stand  upon  the  smooth  and  sandy  beach, 

And  listen  to  his  roar.     The  billows  come 

Tumbling  and  beating  in.     What  an  expanse 

Do  they  roll  from  1     It  seemeth  desolate, 

No  living  thing  is  seen,  and  yet  beneath 

The  flood  what  myriads  dwell !     Leviathan 

Hath  there  his  pastime — all  the  unknown  shapes, 

After  their  kinds  appointed,  that  from  him, 

Down  to  the  viewless  mote,  do  swarm  the  main. 

While  thus  I  meditate  by  its  calm  side, 

Somewhere,  far  out,  the  tempests  are  at  war 

On  their  old  battle-field.    Ah,  poor,  tost  bark, 

That  reeleth  'midst  the  fight,  they  note  thee  not, 

Such  mighty  warriors !    Would  that  thou  wast  there 

Where  o'er  mid-ocean  curves  a  cloudless  sky, 

And  from  the  mast  the  sailor-boy  looks  down, 


THE   THINGS   AROUND  US.  173 

Far,  far,  through  the  clear  deep,  or  rather  come 
Once  more  to  anchor  in  the  wished-for  port. 

Under  a  rocky  coast,  the  hunter,  borne 
In  his  slight  skiff,  a  narrow  opening  sees, 
Left  by  descending  tides.     With  trembling  hand, 
Slowly  and  watchfully,  he  entereth  in, 
Stooping  to  the  low  entrance.     Lo,  how  grand 
A  temple  for  such  door !    The  cave  ascends 
To  a  vast  height,  while  he  sits  silently 
Eocking  on  the  black  billow  1    From  his  side 
Up,  up  aloft  with  glittering  crystals  hung, 
The  walls  do  climb,  till  meeting  o'er  his  head, 
They  cover  him  with  shadows.     Where  the  waves 
Do  gently  strike  the  rock,  each  blow  resounds, 
And  he,  one  word  of  wonder  uttering,  hears 
Unnumbered  voices  from  th'  inclosing  night. 
Still  borne  along  in  awe — yet  grown  more  bold — 
A  distant  sound  salutes  his  ear :  he  floats 
Past  many  a  dripping  crag — 'neath  arches  grand, 
Till  from  a  steep  before  him  waters  fall. 
The  scene  in  its  dim  beauty  is  disclosed ! 
From  the  hid  bowels  of  the  earth  they  come, 
Here  poured  forth  through  a  dark  way  to  the  sea. 
A  snowy  shaft  of  Stalactite  stands  up 

15* 


174  THE   THINGS   AROUND   US. 

Beside  the  cataract,  o'ergrown  with  some  vine. 

0  Nature,  how  deep  dost  thou  touch  the  soul, 
And  how  calls  thy  mute  language !    As  these  caves 
Burrow  beneath  man's  knowledge,  from  the  day, 
So  dost  thou  enter  in  the  hidden  heart, 

Where  even  ourselves  look  not. 

*I  climb  some  mountain  that  hath  been  piled  up 

'Mid  the  luxurious  wastes  of  torrid  climes, 

First  struggling  through  thick  undergrowth  of  vines 

And  humid  forests.     As  I  o'ertop  them, 

Passing  'neath  oaks,  'mid  flowers  of  regions  mild, 

Grassy  savannahs  stretch  far  over  these, 

Where  graze  the  gentle  lama.     Climbing  still, 

Lichens  and  mosses  shroud  the  barren  rocks, 

Till  having  passed  through  each  zone  in  th'  ascent, 

Snows  block  the  upward  path. 

Night  cometh  down 

And  wraps  the  mountain.     Lo !  a  falling  star 
Doth  streak  the  azure  o'er  me.     What  is  it? 
But  vapor  ?  or  some  fragment  of  a  world, 
Flung  like  a  taper  down  the  steep  abyss  ? 

1  look  at  it,  and  wondering  while  I  stand, 

*  This  piece  was  written  after  reading  portions  of  Humboldt's 
Cosmos,  to  which,  in  several  passages,  it  is  largely  indebted. 


THE   THINGS   AROUND   US.  175 

Do  know  as  much  in  my  simplicity 
As  all  the  sages  learned.    Since  at  the  first 
This  canopy  was  spread,  they  have  inquired — 
God  keepeth  them  as  children ! 

Now  I  lift 

My  gaze  higher  up,  to  those  bright  planets  sent 
That  share  with  us  the  sun's  fair  light  and  heat, 
Ever  round  him  revolving — sisters  they, 
And    neighbors    of    our  world,   though   wide-spread 

realms, 

That  millions  of  earth's  kingdoms  would  engulf, 
Do  lie  between  us  and  that  fixed  most  near. 
Above  them  stars  unnumbered,  dotting  space, 
Bright  burning  suns,  hang  twinkling.  Thus  they  looked 
On  the  unpeopled  earth — thus  later  shone 
On  shepherds  that  kept  watch  by  night — who  marked 
Each  watchman  in  his  station,  and  grouped  them 
In  fancied  shapes  upon  the  page  of  heaven. 
Fair  Pleiades,  Orion,  named  before 
By  holier  pen ;  and  since,  all  through  the  height 
Men  fix  the  constellations. 

Yet  higher  up 

I  see  now,  dim,  faint  spots,  not  there  defined, 
In  lines  of  distinct  light,  but  scarcely  seen. 
Ah !  there  roll  glittering  worlds,  numbered  like  dust, 


176  THE  THINGS  AROUND   US. 

Millions  to  make  what  seems  a  passing  cloud  ! 
From  them  the  heavenly  courier  Light — that  comes 
Leaping  from  world  to  world — salutes  my  eye ; 
Yet  even  its  flight  took  ages.     So  far  off 
Have  we  been  placed  asunder ! 

But  I  stand 

Still  on  the  earth.    This  mountain  slope  descends 
Down  to  the  fertile  valleys,  while  beyond 
My  lofty  station  running  past  me  up 
Its  peak  afar,  shines  with  eternal  snows. 
Methinks  I  see  its  glittering  top  dissolve, 
While  round  it  gather  sulphurous  clouds — I  hear 
Low  meanings  underground — then  all  the  vast 
And  lofty  tower  trembles — fires  leap  out, 
Pouring  forth  .flaming  streams  !     Now  from  the  black 
O'erhanging,  wide-spread  canopy,  dart  down 
Great  lightning  flashes — thunder  lifts  his  voice, 
Frighting  the  nations !     Lo,  the  fires  within 
Our  world  do  only  find  a  moment's  vent ; 
Soon  shall  they  cease  again,  all  driven  back, 
Pent  in  their  unseen  dungeon.     There  they  burn 
Quenchless  beneath  us,  and  thus  do  we  live 
On  a  thin  covering  to  eternal  flames, 
'Neath  space  immeasurable.     It  is  here 
Man  hath  this  fleeting  being.     It  is  here 


THE   THINGS   AROUND  US.  177 

He  toileth — loves  and  hates,  forgetteth  Grod 

Even  in  his  presence,  held  upon  his  hand. 

His  Son,  who  made  all  worlds,  and  guideth  this* 

In  its  swift  flight,  once  trod  this  place  with  us — 

Yet  is  his  second  coming !     Oh,  may  I, 

When  these  scenes  that  have  moved  me  all  dissolve, 

And  shrink  up  as  a  parched  scroll,  be  found 

Numbered  at  His  right  hand ! 


CROWS. 

As  the  sun  sinks,  the  lofty  flying  Crows, 
Swayed  by  the  wind,  with  outcries  o'er  my  head, 
Straggle  toward  the  Pines  where  is  their  roost. 
Far  as  my  eye  can  reach  their  line  extends, 
Trooping  aloft  from  fields  were  through  the  day 
They  gathered  scanty  food.     When  I  was  yet 
A  little  child,  I  noted  their  long  flight ; 
And  still  by  that  strange  union  which  doth  join 
Things  in  themselve*s  not  like,  among  our  thoughts, 
Their  evening  journeys  thus,  to  me,  are  linked 
With  winter's  musings  and  imaginings. 


POEMS    IN   RHYME 


MY    COTTAGE. 

MY  Cottage  by  the  river  side, 

Is  white,  with  shutters  green  ; 
Before  it  flowing  to  and  fro,  the  tide, 

Behind,  a  garden  spot  is  seen. 
About  the  lattice  of  its  porch  is  twined 

Sweet  honeysuckle,  but  two  springs  ago, 
Planted  by  gentle  hands;  with  nurture  kind, 

First  it  took  root,  then  slow  began  to  grow. 
But  soon  it  needed  care  no  more, 
And  shadowed  with  its  leafy  arch,  the  door ; 
Now  swift  its  delicate  tendrils  run, 
Clasping  like  fingers  thin  with  every  sun. 
But  not  the  honeysuckle  nor  the  flowers 

That  edge  the  narrow  walk,  me  most  delight, 
When  the  day  darkens,  and  its  toilsome  hours 

Fade  beautiful  as  hours  of  rest,  from  sight, 
16 


182  MY  COTTAGE. 

Then  slow  returning  through  the  wicket  gate, 

Do  loving  hearts  and  longing  eyes  await 

My  weary  joyful  steps.     Oh,  cottage  dear, 

Oh,  river,  ever  flowing  swift  and  clear, 

Oh,  flowers  and  vines,  all  that  the  eye  may  view, 

The  heart  at  first  looks  not  to  you — 

When  elsewhere  satisfied,  but  not  till  then, 

It  turneth  smiling  unto  you  again — 

Ye  do  not  make  it  dark  or  bright, 

But  take  your  hues  from  its  reflected  light ! 

Last  eve  our  little  one  ran  out 

To  welcome  me  on  my  return, 
Her  pattering  feet  and  full  glad  shout 

Made  viewless  fires  of  love  to  burn. 
She  knew  it  not,  but  my  hand  took, 
And  led  with  sweet  important  look, 
As  to  some  new  sight  she  would  bring — 
She  led,  I  silent  following ; 
Over  the  hall  and  up  the  stair, 
Across  the  chamber :  pausing  there 
Beside  an  open  window,  she 
Pointed  into  an  apple-tree — 
There  the  great  secret  stood  confessed 
Among  the  boughs,  a  robin's  nest ! 


MY   COTTAGE.  183 

Yet  still  she  gazed  up  in  my  face, 
My  wonder  and  delight  to  trace. 

It  was,  in  truth,  a  touching  sight. 
Two  branches  midst  the  airy  height, 
Clasped  the  small  house  of  twigs  and  hair. 
The  parent  bird  was  brooding  there, 
Her  bill  and  twinkling  eye  and  head 
Just  raised  above  her  hollowed  bed. 
With  leaves,  methought,  above,  beneath, 
Hocked  by  the  hid  wind's  faintest  breath, 
Here  sitt'st  thou  through  the  summer's  day ; 
Tempest  nor  calm  fright  thee  away, 
The  midnight  cool,  the  midday  warm, 
Nor  rain  nor  drought  may  do  thee  harm  ; 
And  as  thou  sittest,  brooding  still, 
Millions  like  thee  o'er  vale  and  hill, 
'Midst  beauties  we  may  never  see, 
Are  kept  by  the  same  Power  as  thee. 
How  doth  the  glittering,  golden  thread 
Of  love  run  through  God's  works !     Though  dead 
To  thought  or  wide  intelligence, 
Or  even  the  full  of  grosser  sense, 
Yet  in  thy  breast,  thou  little  bird, 
The  same  invisible  chord  is  stirred — 
Though  fainter  cot  less  true  'tis  heard — 


184  MY   COTTAGE. 

Toward  thy  offspring  as  in  me! 

At  this,  not  feeling  sympathy 

For  wandering  thought,  my  little  guide 

I  found  was  pulling  at  my  side. 

To  her  the  first  surprise  was  done, 

And  somewhere  else  she  would  be  gone. 

Lovest  thou  a  lonely  path, 

There  to  wander  forth  unseen, 
Not  where  man  his  dwelling  hath, 

But  where  thought  hath  ever  been  ? 
From  my  cottage,  toward  the  west, 
In  musing  mood  nor  step  in  haste, 
One  summer's  morning  now  long  gone, 
I  took  my  pilgrimage  alone. 
Along  the  little  village  street, 
This  friendly  face  and  that  to  greet, 
I  passed,  as  oft  I  passed  before, 
Till  meeting  smiling  friends  no  more, 
I  found  my  way  had  pierced  a  wood, 
A  silent  hidden  solitude. 
For  close  beside  the  narrow  road 
To  right  and  left  the  thick  trees  stood ; 
Above,  the  parted  branches  through, 
I  saw  a  streak  of  deepest  blue. 


MY   COTTAGE.  185 

On  either  side,  shut  out  the  light, 

The  forests  depths  looked  dark  as  night. 

There  is  a  joy  to  some  unknown, 
In  wandering  free,  yet  all  alone, 
From  the  great  world's  ear  and  eye, 
Eemoved  as  from  captivity ! 
Why  is  it  viewless  fetters  bind, 
While  in  the  presence  of  our  kind  ? 
In  nature's  peopled  haunts  afar, 
Where  beings  whom  we  know  not  are, 
Though  countless  angels  come  and  go, 
With  the  loosed  mind  it  is  not  so. 

Here  as  I  mused  came  many  a  thought, 
Like  swarms  the  candle's  blaze  hath  brought, 
Like  them  when  that  brief  flame  is  o'er, 
Lost  in  the  dark,  and  found  no  more  1 
Is  there  some  vast  receptacle 
For  all  the  voiceless  heart  doth  feel — 
Doth  feel  but  that  no  tongue  can  tell  ? 
When  opening  wide  before  our  sight 
That  vast  world  shall  be  filled  with  light, 
How  trifling  will  these  labors  seem, 
The  author's  thought,  the  poet's  dream  I 
16* 


186  MY   COTTAGE. 

More  of  each  sort  remains  beneath 

Than  e'er  was  brought  forth  by  the  breath. 

Now  not  a  sound  save  some  wild  bird 
Answering  its  distant  mate  was  heard, 
While  closer  round  the  thick,  dense  wood 
Drew  its  dark  curtains  where  I  stood. 
A  naked  footprint,  pressed  upon 
The  soft,  white  sand  my  eye  fell  on ; 
It  was  a  child's — a  little  one ! 
Pass  by  it  if  within  thy  home 

There  is  no  child ;  to  thee  'tis  hid, 
Why  in  those  forest  depths  alone 

At  such  a  simple  sight  unbid 
My  heart  should  thrill  and  tears  should  rise, 
Dimming  the  walk  before  my  eyes. 
Some  chords  within  sleep  idly  there 
Till  new  joys  must  assuage  new  care, 
Not  until  late  the  heart  unfolds 
All  the  deep  treasures  that  it  holds, 
And  many  an  embryo  of  strength 
Lies  hid  till  mountains  press  at  length. 
So  did  this  foot-print,  reaching  deep 
Wake  tender  tones  that  in  thee  sleep ; 
Up-summoned  rose  her  form  and  face, 
Each  lineament  I  could  trace, 


MY   COTTAGE.  187 

Till  my  child's  image,  standing  there, 
Peopled  the  vacant,  silent  air ! 

The  morning  sun  was  risen  high, 
One  white  cloud  floated  in  the  sky, 
Its  great  full  folds  like  silver  shone, 
Against  the  blue  it  trod  alone. 
Beside  my  path  I  sat  me  down, 

And,  gazing  on  the  heavenly  isle, 
Methought,  if  tempests  are  thy  frown, 

Sweet  cloud,  this  calm  rest  is  thy  smile ! 
If  now  from  heaven's  depths  afar, 
Or  some  unknown  and  nameless  star — 
A  spirit  in  descending  flight, 
Should  break  on  my  uplifted  sight, 
Nearer  and  nearer — yet  more  bright, 
Until  I  saw  his  wings  enfold, 
And  him  on  thy  steep  brink  alight, 
How  would  it  ravish  to  behold ! 
But  what  is  this  ?     All  fancy's  boast 
Is  nothing,  to  that  living  host 
Who  flit  around  Heaven's  viewless  coast ! 
Viewless  as  yet,  no  eye  can  see 
Those  borders  of  eternity, 
But  soon  to  all  'twill  opened  be. 


188  MY  COTTAGE. 

Oh  may  I  then  behold  that  land 
And  with  the  uprisen  nations  stand, 
Who  gather  at  the  Lamb's  right  hand ! 

Slow  passing  on  and  wandering 
Whither  my  unknown  path  would  bring, 
I  entered  soon  an  open  space 
Where,  neath  the  shadow  of  the  wood 
Like  some  lone  watcher  in  his  place 
A  meeting-house  secluded  stood. 
Beyond,  along  the  public  way, 
With  crumbling  wall  the  graveyard  lay ; 
The  building  had  an  ancient  look, 
But  as  I  closer  survey  took, 
I  knew  from  all  the  speaking  scene 
It  had  for  years  deserted  been. 
Beneath  the  eaves,  the  dripping  rain 
Had  worn  deep  channels  in  the  plain; 
No  well-trod  paths  divided  round 
The  grass,  grown  rank  upon  the  ground ; 
Up  to  the  entrance,  a  brief  height, 
Steps  did  not  pilgrim  feet  invite, 
But  clamb'ring  the  steep  chasm  o'er, 
I  forced  the  slowly  yielding  door 
That  ope'd  on  Sabbath  morn  no  more, 


MY   COTTAGE.  189 

And  found  all  that  the  winds  withstood, 
Was  an  upleaning  piece  of  wood. 
Within,  strewn  o'er  the  sunken  floor, 
The  ancient  seats,  with  ranks  now  broke, 
Of  a  past  congregation  spoke. 
Along  one  end,  where  all  might  see, 
Was  reared  the  preacher's  gallery. 
The  stove  yet  there,  o'errun  with  rust, 
Held  ashes  on  its  hearth  and  dust, 
And  to  the  open  doorway  near 
Stood  the  old,  idle,  vacant  bier. 
It  was,  in  truth,  a  lonely  place, 

Filling  the  heart  with  kindred  gloom, 
As  though  'twere  but  a  narrow  space 

Between  it  and  the  tomb. 
Yet  said  I,  Back,  thou  rising  tear, 
For  souls  have  entered  heaven  from  here ! 
Now  as  I  stood,  I  noted  fall 
A  sunbeam  on  the  floor  and  wall, 
Creeping  its  daily  journey  slow, 
Punctual  from  summer's  heat  till  snow 
While  shadowy  generations  go! 

'Tis  often  blind,  the  gloomy  thought, 
The  pang  by  recollection  brought. 


190  MY   COTTAGE. 

True,  they  are  gone,  but  tell  me  where  ? 
If  to  repose  from  ceaseless  care, 
Is  that  a  thing  to  make  us  grieve  ? 
No,  rather  courage  take,  and  live, 
Hoping  like  freedom  to  receive. 
For  'tis  not  changes  that  the  eye 
In  outward  objects  doth  descry ; 
The  mouldering  of  wood  and  stone, 
That  makes  the  heart  feel  all  alone; 
It  is  the  thoughts  that  with  them  come, 
The  images  of  those  now  gone, 
Who  look  not  on  us  one  by  cne, 
But  in  dim  crowds  around  us  throng. 
Yet  those  whom  thus  we  blindly  mourn, 
If  dead  in  Christ,  would  not  return, 
Nor  have  us  saddened  at  decay, 

But  rather  gladdened  at  the  sight, 
As  earnests  that  our  own  dark  day, 
O'er  its  brief  limit  shall  not  stay, 

But  soon  emerge,  like  theirs,  in  light. 
When  thou  art  tempted  then  to  share 
In  melancholy  thoughts,  beware, 
These  changes  here,  are  glory  there. 

I  went  forth  now  to  where  the  dead 
Alone,  or  in  close  ranks  were  laid, 


MY   COTTAGE.  191 

t 

And  started  as  I  'midst  them  found 
An  open  grave  within  the  ground. 
From  its  new  broken,  crumbling  side, 
I  saw  'twas  yet  unoccupied. 
Here,  as  I  scanned  the  depths  beneath, 
I  spied  there,  on  the  moistened  earth, 
Striving  to  climb  the  steep  sides  bare, 
A  spotted  lizard — fallen  there  ! 
It  might  not  leave  the  narrow  bed, 

And  as  some  clods  fell,  I  could  see 
'Twas  still,  and  lifting  up  its  head 

Gazed  with  its  small  bright  eyes  on  me. 

Is  it  such  loathsome  company, 
We,  who  were  scornful  in  time  past, 
Whom  we  should  know,  must  keep  at  last  ? 

Ah  eloquent,  mute  homily ! 
Yet  we  need  not  such  argument, 
For  to  each  bosom  such  is  sent — 
As  the  great  army  on  life's  way, 
Holds  the  hot  conflict  day  by  day, 
Some  moments,  each  one  can  recall, 
When  through  some  happening  'midst  the  strife 
(Which  not  by  chance  did  him  befall), 
He  felt  the  nothingness  of  life ! 

'Twas  but  a  moment  brief — no  more, 

' 

And  he  was  blinded  as  before. 


192  MY   COTTAGE. 

Oh,  who  can  fix  this  flash  of  light, 
That  it  shall  never  fail  our  sight  ? 

Long  musing  round  this  spot  I  stood, 

But  bidding  it  farewell  at  last 
I  left  it  for  the  deeper  wood. 
Not  far  I  walked,  when  from  .the  road 
A  path  wound,  as  to  some  abode. 
I  turned  on  it,  and  following, 
Came  to  a  hidden,  crystal  spring ; 
As  close  beside  its  grassy  brink, 
I  prostrate  kneeling  bent  to  drink, 
'Neath  its  smooth  surface,  imaged  there, 
I  saw  tall  boughs,  as  in  the  air — 
While  through  their  openings  farther  down 
Spots  of  the  deep  blue  heaven  shone ; 
Then,  when  I  broke  the  falling  light, 
Lifting  my  hand  to  shade  my  sight, 
These  pictures  from  the  surface  fled, 

And  but  a  little  way  below 
The  white  sand  boiling,  gleamed  instead, 

Pure,  spotless,  like  a  bed  of  snow. 
I  noted  to  the  cool  wet  side, 
Welled  up  the  placid,  limped  tide, 
Then  overflowed  and  stole  away, 
Where  thicker  foliage  dimmed  the  day, 


MY  COTTAGE.  193 

The  rivulet  not  heard  nor  seen, 
But  marked  by  growth  of  deeper  green, 
With  here  and  there,  amid  the  gloom, 
The  wild  rose  in  its  desert  bloom. 
How  long  it  was  I  cannot  tell, 
Ere  I  now  in  deep  slumber  fell — 
Then  to  my  closed  eyes  came  a  sight, 
Hidden  from  them  when  ope'd  to  light. 
Methought  the  trees  about  me  drew 
Apart,  and  the  long  vista  through, 
I  looked  on  the  descending  sun 
As  oft  before  then  I  had  done, 
Only  the  clouds  and  sea  of  gold 
Seemed  like  a  gateway  to  unfold, 
Mighty  and  glorious  to  behold ! 
Within  those  gates,  undimmed  and  clear, 
'Midst  heaven's  unclouded  atmosphere, 
I  saw  afar  a  shining  band 
Look  out  toward  our  earthly  land — 
I  saw  them  on  the  threshold  stand ! 
Soon  upward  borne,  as  they  had  been 
Glad  heralds  from  this  world  of  sin, 
Three  angels  to  them  entered  in. 
Then  quick  that  bright  host  gathered  round ; 
17 


194  MY   COTTAGE. 

I  heard  unnumbered  voices  sound, 
The  dead  hath  life !    The  lost  is  found ! 
At  this  I  saw  the  heavens  no  more ; 
The  earth  closed  round  me  as  before. 
Then,  while  I  lay  there  wondering, 
Methought  beside  that  hidden  spring, 
Even  with  me  in  that  lowly  wood, 
One  of  those  same  bright  beings  stood. 
Know'st  thou  what  thou  hast  seen  ?    said  he ; 
Dimly,  I  answered,  doth  dust  see, 
Even  though  I  know,  yet  tell  thou  me. 
Whene'er,  he  said,  on  swiftest  wing 
Angels  to  heaven  tidings  bring, 
That  but  one  soul  hath  turned  to  God, 
Joy  filleth  all  our  vast  abode ! 

When  I  awoke,  unbroken  shade 
Upon  the  ground  about  me  laid, 
Telling  that  down  the  west,  the  sun 
Below  the  forest's  top  was  gone ; 
I  rose,  my  day  of  thought  was  done ! 
Eeturning  by  the  old  church  door, 
'Twas  lone  and  silent  as  before ; 
But  for  the  open  grave,  I  found 
A  narrow,  nameless,  new-made  mound. 


f 

MY  COTTAGE.  195 

Methought  I  heard  a  voice  now  say, 

Through  the  dim  twilight  round  my  way, 

What  profit  hast  thou  earned  to-day  ? 

And  thus  I  answered :  Not  below 

Doth  God  his  visible  presence  show, 

But  through  his  works  we  him  may  know. 

I  in  their  midst  this  day  have  stood, 

And  meditating,  found  it  good 

To  feel  for  Him  in  solitude. 

I  have  looked  down  upon  the  bed, 

Open,  new-made,  to  lodge  the  dead, 

"Whereon  I  soon  must  lay  my  head ; 

Not  masked  with  mausoleum  high, 

But  just  as  I  in  truth  must  lie, 

And  with  no  other  company. 

While  sleep  upon  my  eyelids  sate, 

I  saw  afar  Heaven's  open  gate 

And  those  who  there  our  souls  await. 

Because  one  sinner  lost,  was  found, 

I  heard  their  hallelujahs  sound, 

I  heard — a  worm  upon  the  ground ! 


THE  DINING-EOOM  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE. 

THE  cheerful  group  that  gathered  round  me 

One  by  one  to  rest  has  gone, 
And  this  later  hour  hath  found  me 

Sitting  by  the  fire  alone. 
The  vacant  chairs  about  me  stand 
As  they  were  left,  on  either  hand — 
I  will  now  draw  mine  own  up  nigher, 

And  looking  in  the  bright  grate  see 
If  in  this  winter-midnight's  fire 

One  may  not  find  some  company. 
In  feeble,  harmless  mockery 
Of  the  rude  storm  that  blows  without, 

Look  how  a  viewless  breath  of  air 
Traverses  the  red  plain  about, 

Swaying  each  flame  now  here,  now  there ! 
As  one  in  some  lone  room  aside, 

Sees  pictured  by  the  camera, 


THE   DUSTING-BOOM   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE.     197 

"Within  a  spot  a  city  wide, 

With  thousands  thronging  by  the  way  ; 
So  musing  by  this  fire  alone, 

All  o'er  its  narrow  breadth  to-night 
A  pencilled  hand  doth  seem  to  come, 

Painting  the  world  in  mimic  light. 

A  handful  of  red  coals !  the  earth 

In  the  deep  caverns  of  her  breast 
Did  cover  up  their  unknown  birth — 

Hidden  as  in  eternal  rest. 
High  o'er  them  wild  flowers  blossoming 
Led  on  sweet  summer.     None  to  sow 
Nor  reap  were  there.    As  waters  flow, 
Came  autumn's  frost  and  winter's  snow; 

And  swift  again  returned  the  spring — 
Even  races  changed,  until  at  last 
Each  age,  each  fleeting  moment  passed 

That  should  th'  appointed  period  bring. 
Men  ope'd  the  mine,  and  from  long  night 
Brought  forth  this  handful  to  the  light ; 
Not  dreaming  of  that  sure  decree, 
By  which  at  first  'twas  formed  for  me, 
To  fall  to  ashes  in  my  sight. 
"What  an  unwritten  history, 
17* 


198  THE    DINING-ROOM 

Or  unknown  future  yet  to  gain, 
Doth  to  each  casual  thing  pertain ! 
Thou  feelest  pride.     The  gem  is  thine, 
That  doth  from  o'er  thy  bosom  shine. 
But  what  is  thy  possession  ?    Know 

That  as  it  beauteous  now  appears, 
From  breast  to  breast,  from  brow  to  brow, 

It  hath  passed  for  a  thousand  years, 
And  so  will  pass — thou,  not  it  lost, 
Thou'rt  but  one  of  a  mouldering  host 
That  o'er  its  glittering  path  hath  crossed ! 

Or  come  forth  with  me  to  the  field — 

The  slender  stem  beside  thy  feet 
Shall  from  its  bark  small  fibres  yield, 

Which  maiden  hands  shall  bind  and  beat, 
Combing  each  thin  thread  separate, 
Till  spun  and  wove,  and  bleached  pure  white 
'Twill  show  fair  linen  in  men's  sight. 
Who  then  can  give  it  place  or  date  ? 
Above  some  bold,  stout  heart  'twill  rest, 
Or,  covering  the  more  sensitive  breast, 
Will  feel  the  oft  hid  throbs  beneath ; 
Or  worthless  rags  become  at  last, 
Upon  the  trodden  highway  cast, 


OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE.  199 

From  out  the  gath'rer's  loathsome  store, 
'Tis  brought  to  change  its  shape  once  more. 
Mingled  with  water  pure  and  clean, 

Torn  to  minutest  particles, 
Forth  flows  th'  affluent  pulpy  stream, 

Beneath  th'  rejected  liquid  falls — 
Above,  along  the  wirey  plain 
White  spotless  paper  doth  remain ! 
This  will  be  written  on.     Some  eye 
That  now  would  noteless  pass  it  by 
(Though  first  must  intervene  long  years), 
Will  brighter  grow  or  dim  with  tears, 
When  searching  what  this  plant  shall  bear, 
It  reads  the  few  words  written  there. 
Perhaps  within  some  volume  bound 
Impressed  with  words  indelible, 

'Twill  wisdom's  hidden  ways  expound, 
Yielding  him  truth  who  loves  it  well — 

What  will  it  teach,  or  where  be  found 
This  lowly  thing  ?    Who,  who  can  tell  ? 

But  other  thoughts  this  place  doth  bring — 
This  was  my  father's  roof  I    From  here 

The  path  from  summer  back  to  spring, 
Doth  at  a  glance  now  reappear. 


200  THE   DINING-ROOM 

Where,  while  I  passed  unconscious  on, 

As  living  things  take  root  and  start, 
Sprang  those  deep  feelings  one  by  one, 

And  powers  that  fill  man's  mind  and  heart. 
These,  too,  slow  forming,  buried  deep 
As  treasures  of  the  mine  do  sleep ; 
And  as  this  handful  in  my  sight, 
"Was  formed  to  cheer  this  hour  to-night, 
So,  for  some  good  work  in  my  day, 
Each  better  trait  within  doth  lay, 
Till  by  God's  help  that  work  is  done, 
And  I  back  unto  dust  have  gone. 
Nor  though  he  causeth  none  to  sin, 

Was  the  Creator  ignorant, 
That  when  I  had  a  wanderer  been 

From  virtue's  paths,  where  I  was  sent, 
My  passions  wasting  at  their  will, 

Would  quench  affection,  kindle  strife, 
Mingling  the  good  with  how  much  ill, 

According  to  my  checkered  life ! 
He  knew  it  all.     Through  centuries, 
That  gathered  were  as  autumn  leaves, 
He  ne'er  foreordered,  kindly  care, 
Nor  act  of  love  or  friendship  fair, 
But  one  to  do  the  deed  was  there. 


OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE.  201 

So  too  each  evil  deed  foreseen, 
Had  long  before  so  thwarted  been, 
That  e'en  with  virtue  it  took  part, 
And  worked  good  for  the  new-born  heart. 

How  different,  then,  His  view  from  ours ; 

We  dimly  scan  a  few  dark  hours — 

But  before  Him,  as  one  page  lie, 

The  past  and  all  futurity ! 

We  wait  th'  event  that  shall  befall, 

He  doth  each  in  its  order  call, 

And  e'er  the  first  had  summed  up  all ! 

To  us  what  hath  been,  is  forgot, 

What  shall  be,  yet  unknown,  is  not ; 

To  Him  all  equidistant,  clear, 

The  age  long  gone,  the  moment  here — 

By  doubts,  nor  fears,  nor  hopes,  ere  tost 

Naught  new  nor  old  is,  found  nor  lost. 

While  musing  thus  secure  and  warm, 
As  in  some  fortress  shut  from  harm, 
Still  howls  the  wintry  wind  without, 
Still  tosseth  each  blue  flame  about, 
While  from  far  wastes  or  ocean's  shore, 
The  storm  beats  to  my  very  door. 


202  THE   DINING-KOOM 

What  thin  partition  'tis  divides 
From  icy  cold  and  swelling  tides ! 
What  different  scenes  each  other  pass, 
Parted  but  by  a  pane  of  glass ! 

But  rising  now  from  my  warm  seat 

(iVot  in  the  body,  but  in  thought), 
I  go  forth  from  this  calm  retreat — 

Ah,  by  one  step  what  distance  brought ! 
Here  it  is  bleak,  no  warmth,  no  light — 
All  earth  and  heaven  wrapt  in  night, 
While  viewless,  but  with  loud  wild  cry 
The  armies  of  the  air  rush  by. 
I  journey  on,  for  though  storms  blow 
O'er  rising  floods,  through  fire  or  snow 
Thought  on  its  path  unharmed  may  go — 
Till  where  a  river  spreadeth  wide, 
And  lofty  shores  rise  by  its  side, 
I  open  a  small  wicket  gate. 
'Tis  midnight,  dark  and  desolate. 
Against  the  black  skies  dimly  seen 
Eock  a  few  boughs  of  evergreen. 
Along  the  narrow  path  I  tread 

(Oft  have  I  trodden  it  before), 
Till  'neath  a  latticed  archway  led, 

I  ope  th'  inhospitable  door, 


OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE.  203 

Then  like  some  spirit  through  the  gloom, 
For  living  thing  nor  light  is  there — 

Above,  below,  from  room  to  room, 
O'er  vacant  hall  and  quiet  stair 

I  pass  'midst  unused  furniture. 

\.  ^ 

This  is  the  place  where,  when  glad  Spring 
Doth  from  the  deep  earth  blossoms  bring — 
I  come,  with  those  I  love,  to  dwell. 
Winter,  her  brother,  robed  in  snow, 
Not  as  some  say,  her  envious  foe, 
Sh'  embraceth  here,  and  bids  farewell ; 
While  round  the  stream  her  warblers  sing, 
And  this  white  cottage  by  its  side. 
Lo,  what  a  change !    Then,  open  wide 
Doors,  windows,  tempt  the  gentle  air 
Now  stripping  mighty  forests  bare — 
The  winds  as  for  its  ruin  sent 
Do  shake  this  trembling  tenement. 

Standing  all  lonely  in  the  dark, 
I  hear  a  rustling  near  me — hark  I 
And  over  by  the  opp'site  wall 
Something  is  moving  white  and  tall ; 


204  THE    DINING-ROOM 

What  is  it  ?    Ah,  now  I  can  see 

"Pis  but  the  window's  drapery ! 

Though  sash  and  shutter  both  are  fast, 

Through  some  small  crevice  creeps  the  blast — 

A  little  rill  from  storms  that  blow — 

Tossing  the  curtains  to  and  fro. 

Ha !  what  strange  doings,  sounds,  and  sights, 

Are  here  through  the  long  winter  nights ! 

I  might  be  sad.    The  sombre  thought 

To  me  by  less  is  often  brought, 

But  I  will  rather  think  of  when, 

'Neath  calm  and  cloudless  heavens  serene, 
Sweet  summer  will  be  here  again, 

Waving  her  leafy  robes  of  green. 
Soon  shall  break  forth  that  milder  day, 
Soon  'neath  the  shade  my  child  shall  play, 
Watching  the  robin  twine  his  nest ; 

Or,  grouped  all  on  the  bank's  steep  brink, 
Well  stand  in  presence  of  the  west, 

While  down  its  steep  the  sun  doth  sink. 
For  so  the  full  and  bounteous  scope, 
Of  the  good  promise  gone  before, 
That  seed-time,  harvest,  autumn's  store, 
Eevolving  shall  fail  never  more, 
Giveth  me  liberty  to  hope ! 


OF   THE   OLD  HOUSE.  205 

Only  this  one  remembrance 

Driveth  these  glad  thoughts  blushing  hence ; 

It  is  that  for  long  summers  past, 

Given,  me  in  this  place  of  good, 
I  at  the  Giver's  feet  have  cast 

But  moments  brief  of  gratitude. 
Not  that  the  prospect  far  and  fair, 

Which  nature  spreads  before  this  place, 
Mingling  her  floods  with  earth  and  air,- 

Till  of  a  still  morn  I  can  trace — 
As  'twere  let  down  to  wet  mine  eyes — 
An  image  faint  of  paradise; 
Not  that  this  doth  entrance  my  sight, 

For  ever  while  I  gaze  I  see 
"Written  in  hues  of  deeper  light, 

My  own  and  their  mortality  ! 
Not  that  the  love  of  beings  here, 

Which  filleth  up,  doth  drown  my  heart; 
In  the  fond  gaze  of  those  most  dear 

Still  frames  the  sentence,  We  must  part — 
Nay,  as  for  these  things  well  I  know 

All  that  earth  to  the  spirit  yields, 
Are  but  the  seeds  of  flowers  that  grow 

To  fullest  bloom  on  heaven's  fields ; 

18 


206  THE   DINING-ROOM 

But  'tis,  that  ?in  or  indolence 

Doth  fetter  still  each  new-born  sense. 

I  do  believe ! — each  blessing  sentr 

E'en  in  my  sight  traced  from  above 
Is  an  unanswered  argument ! 

My  soul  confesseth — longs  to  love, 
Nay  more,  doth  love :  and  with  Faith's  eye 

Uplifted,  sees  afar  the  blest, 
Assured  of  immortality, 

From  even  these  tossings,  final  rest, 
Yet  is  it  dull,  insensible, 
Feeling  not  what  it  knows  so  well. 
Oh,  when  at  times  roused  from  their  sleep, 

Or  broken  from  their  captiveTs  chain, 
My  passions  do  new  revels  keep, 

Reigning  as  'twere  within  again ; 
When  at  such  times  a  viewless  hand, 

Leads  me  to  some  still  spot  aside, 
And  lifts  the  veil — amazed  I  stand, 

That  such  dread  tenants  may  abide, 
Still  in  a  heart  that  loveth  God, 
The  place  he  chose  for  his  abode  I 
And  could  I  mine  own  madness  tame, 
Or  with  foul  hands  wash  out  the  stain, 
If  none  now  to  my  succor  came  ? 


OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE.  207 

Ah,  I  have  seen !     Let  others  boast 

Of  deep  gulfs  in  their  own  strength  crossed, 

But  as  for  me,  since  that  first  day 

When,  moved  by  grace,  I  turned  toward  heaven, 
Each  briefest  footstep  of  the  way 

Was  made  in  strength  by  Jesus  given, 
Strength  that  whate'er  its  cost  may  be 
Was  given  costless  unto  me. 

The  old  clock  in  the  hall  strikes — one ! 

Its  sound  doth  summon  wandering  thought 
That  far  beyond  the  storm  had  gone. 

Back  to  the  fireside  I  am  brought — 
The  fireside !    Ah,  we  may  write 

Strange  things  of  it — how  greatest  men, 
Men  who  sway  kingdoms  by  their  might — 

When  from  the  world  returned  again 
They  sit  thus  musing  here  alone, 
Are  conscious  that  their  hearts  are  one, 
Even  with  the  lowliest  of  their  kind. 
Forced  back  upon  the  unflattering  mind 
They  learn  once  more  how  little  things 
Oft  touch  the  deepest,  tenderest  strings. 
The  trifles  of  their  childhood  set 


208  THE   DINING-ROOM 

In  none  of  fame's  thin  drapery. 
Rising  before  them,  homely  yet, 

Move  them  as  they  move  thee  or  me. 

Thou  scarce  canst  see  by  this  dim  light 

Yonder  where  mingled  shadows  fall, 
Near  to  the  ceiling's  dusky  height, 

A  nail  driven  part  way  in  the  wall. 
It  is  a  spot  where  one  bright  ray 
Used  every  morn  to  herald  day, 
Nay  heralds  yet  the  morn — come  far 
By  many  an  unknown  world  and  star 
Ere  there  its  glittering  flight  doth  stay. 
In  years  long  gone — I  count  them  not — • 
My  sister  hung  beside  that  spot 
The  cage  that  held  her  singing  bird ; 
Trilling  all  day,  its  notes  were  heard 
Seeming  thanksgivings  for  her  care, 
Sending  sweet  music  everywhere. 
Now,  were  she  sitting  by  my  side 

Still,  when  the  recollection  came, 
'Twere  one  that  might  a  time  abide ; 

Much  since  hath  changed,  much  the  same, 
The  smile  would  mingle  with  the  tear, 
But — oh,  my  friend,  she  is  not  here ! 


OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE.  209 

Is  it  not  strange  that  at  this  hour, 

When  all  her  past  crowds  to  my  breast, 
One  lone  remembrance  comes  with  power 

Rising  undimmed  above  the  rest  ? 
That  of  an  unkind  word  by  me 
Which  she  once  wept  at  silently. 
Why  doth  it  thus  come  ?    'T  was  forgiven 

And  blotted  by  a  hand  above, 
I  trust,  from  out  the  book  of  heaven. 

Were  there  no  words  of  tender  love 
That  as  I  muse  to-night  alone 
With  melancholy  joy  might  come  ? 
Ah,  not  for  joy  is  it  now  sent 

By  Him  who  summons  up  the  thought, 
For  me  a  better  gift  is  meant, 

To  me  instruction  hath  it  brought. 
The  present  shall  become  the  past, 

Even  as  those  years  have  from  me  fled, 
May  I  not,  lingering  till  the  last, 

"Number  those  living  with  the  dead  ? 
The  word  to  day,  told  in  the  ear, 

That  makes  some  wounded  heart  to  burn, 
May,  when  that  heart  shall  not  be  here, 

Back  to  my  bosom  barbed,  return. 
18* 


210  THE   DINING-ROOM 

"When  we  do  look  within  to  find, 

Whose  image  on  our  breasts  we  wear, 
We  learn  that  not  the  loftiest  mind 

Doth  grave  its  name  most  deeply  there, 
But  the  forgiving,  true  and  kind; 
And  knowing  this,  and  that  above 

All  offerings  that  can  rendered  be, 
To  us,  we  most  do  covet  love, 

It  hath  a  marvel  been  to  me, 
That  o'er  ourselves  the  victory 
We  strive  not  harder  to  attain, 
Though  for  ourselves  alone  the  gain  1 
Doth  not  a  hasty  spirit  fling 

That  one  first  drop  of  bitterness 
Into  Love's  never-failing  spring, 

That  else  would  flow  forth  but  to  bless  ? 
Or  like  an  un quenched  spark  it  lies, 

Even  'midst  the  gathered  bonds  of  home, 
It  fires,  it  snaps  the  tender  ties 

That  do  bind  brethren  into  one. 
And  I  have  marked  its  wondrous  power — 

One  early  frost  blights  all  the  plain, 
It  nips  the  bud,  it  kills  the  flower — 

'Tis  winter  ere  they  bloom  again. 


OF   THE   OLD   HOU&E.  211 

For,  to  put  simile  apart, 

The  passion  lodged  in  me  so  deep, 
Its  likeness  hath  in  every  heart, 

Which  but  a  word  may  rouse  from  sleep. 

Oh  for  that  calm  and  equal  mind 

Whose  peace  a  breath  may  not  disturb, 
Who,  though  the  soil  seems  all  unkind, 
Some  hidden  virtue  still  will  find, 

And  its  own  enmity  doth  curb. 
Few  spots  of  earth  have  fruitless  proved" 

When  faithful  hands  have  come  to  till ; 
Few  hearts  but  some  have  justly  loved, 

Few  but  we  may  love  if  we  will. 
Are  any  pure  ?     Hath  Love  a  law 

By  which  unmingled,  spotless  worth 
Alone  may  claim  fair  gifts  from  her  ? 

Then  may  she  turn  to-day  from  earth ! 
But  bands  who  live  by  lawless  strife, 

Some  pledges  from  her  still  do  keep, 
True  each  to  each  they  war  through  life, 

And  when  the  parting  cometh,  weep! 

Affection  then  asks  to  be  sought 

Like  veins  in  treasure-yielding  ground, 


212  THE   DINING-KOOM 

Perchance  from  depths  it  must  be  brought, 
Upon  the  surface  may  abound — 
Somewhere  the  ore  is  always  found. 

And  having  found  it,  oh  how  fair 
Th'  uncovered  mass  shows  to  the  light ! 

The  whole,  wide,  stony  waste  doth  wear 
New  worth  and  beauty  in  our  sight. 

The  gold  is  reached !    Its  hue  we  see ! 
All  hid  in  our  own  breasts  of  such 

By  some  mysterious  alchemy 

Thrills  at  its  first  life-giving  touch — 

Love  is  the  child  of  sympathy ! 

Yet  well  I  know  nor  reasoning, 
Nor  the  most  finished  argument 

Can  to  our  hearts  this  temper  bring, 

By  which  we  search  in  everything, 
For  cause  to  love:  'tis  heaven-sent. 

Much  less  can  pictured  portrait  fair 
Of  its  mild  beauty  and  its  power, 

Give  it  a  lasting  being  there — 

Mere  sentiment  dies  with  the  hour. 

For  like  all  virtues  this  must  bear — 
Here,  banished  from  its  native  place, 
Housed,  pent  up  with  a  hostile  race — 

Its  cross,  and  even  thorns  must  wear. 


OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE.  213 

He  who  would  keep  it  must  go  armed, 
Marsh'ling  Iris  powers,  not  'gainst  the  foe, 

But  that  the  foe  may  pass  unharmed, 
Willing  to  deal  his  own  blow. 

Nay,  even  friends,  when  thought  hath  gone, 

By  very  kindness  tempted  on, 

And  virtue's  seeming  helplessness, 

Ma}7"  wound  him  whom  they  first  should  bless. 

How  shall  we  gain  this  treasure,  then, 

This  charity  which  doth  let  fall 
The  veil  that  malice  lifts,  again? 

Thus  come  we  to  the  sum  of  all. 
As  earth  in  no  far  desert  hold, 

Nor  to  the  centre  of  her  sphere 
Doth  treasure  such  as  this  enfold, 
More  pure  than  is  her  virgin  gold — 
Vain  is  the  hope  that  searcheth  here. 
We  must  look  up  I     As  fair  appear, 
Wide  stretching  o'er  some  moonless  night, 
The  countless  worlds  there  robed  in  light, 
So  all  heaven's  virtues,  glorious,  too, 
Hang  o'er  us  hidden  from  our  view ; 
And  as  those  worlds  revolving  far 
Beyond  the  gazer's  influence  are, 


214  THE   DINING-ROOM 

So  when  the  soul  with  opened  eye 

Those  stars  sees  on  that  upper  sky, 

It  feels  its  deep  infirmity. 

If  thou  canst  curb  by  thine  own  force 

One  planet  rolling  in  its  course, 

And  bring  it  captive  unto  thee — 

Then  hast  thou  gained  the  power  at  length 

Unaided  by  thy  native  strength, 

To  pluck  one  spotless  virtue  down 

From  heaven  and  cry,  It  is  mine  own ! 

Yet  'neath  these  virtues  do  we  live, 

And  though  with  blind  polluted  sense, 
May  of  their  healing  power  receive 

And  be  ruled  by  their  influence. 
They  are  for  us  I  for  knowest  thou  not, 

Who,  when  ascending  up  on  high 
Bore  with  him  gifts  his  blood  had  bought, 

And  captive  led  captivity? 
He  will  bestow  them  still  on  thee, 

If  humbly  sought  with  reverent  care, 
So  now  come  we  to  victory, 

Yea,  the  reward  too  is  hid  there — 

The  power  that  virtue  wins  is  PRAYER  ! 


OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE.  215 

Oh,  wondrous  Power,  by  which  alone, 

I,  born  to  want  and  poverty, 
May  to  the  glorious  threshold  come, 
Yea,  pass  up  to  the  very  Throne — 

How  am  I  poor  possessing  thee  ? 

I  stand  on  earth — -thou  lift'st  me  hence — 

I  reach  to  starry  heights  sublime, 
I  touch  their  loftiest  eminence, 
I  deathless  virtues  pluck  from  thence, 

And  fill  my  bosom — they  are  mine ! 

Flickering  within  its  socket,  weak 
My  candle  scarce  doth  hold  its  flame, 

It  sinketh  now — now  doth  it  seek, 
Eunning  swift  down  the  wick  again, 

To  draw  new  life  and  sustenance 

As  it  was  wont  to  draw  it  thence. 

Slow  it  returns ;  the  store  is  done — 

Now  but  a  spot  it  hath  become — 

'Tis  fainter,  fainter — it  is  gone ! 

But  the  spark  left  is  not  quite  fled, 

It  sends  forth  wreaths  of  smoke  o'erhead, 

It  varieth  like  the  flame  before — 

Plays  the  same  game  to  hope  once  more 

Till  it  too  darkens,  and  is  dead. 


216  THE   DINING-ROOM 

I  marvel  not  that  men  have  seen, 

Ever  in  this  slight  incident, 
Pictured,  the  moment  when  hath  been 

A  summons  to  the  spirit  sent —  • 
So  doth  the  body  hoard  its  breath, 
And  yield  unwillingly  to  death; 
But  in  this  likeness  we  forget 

That  all  of  languor  imaged  there 
Is  of  the  body ! — youthful,  yet, 

The  soul  doth  but  its  wrappings  wear, 
"Which,  loosened,  falling  oft'  at  length, 
Leave  it  freed  in  immortal  strength ! 
Methinks,  at  such  a  time  and  place 

Did  heavenly  heralds,  as  of  old, 
Meet  and  speak  with  us  face  to  face, 

I  might  celestial  converse  hold. 
He  who  by  darkness  compassed  round, 
Slumb'ring  upon  the  desert  ground, 
Saw  angels  in  th'  illumined  air 
Ascending  and  descending  there, 
While  One  above  more  glorious  stood, 
Lay  not  in  deeper  solitude. 
But  this  may  not  be ;  day  nor  night 
Shall  e'er  unveil  Him  to  my  sight, 
Who,  from  all  flesh  hath  hid  in  light. 


OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE.  217 

Is  he  then  not  ? — Is  there  no  God  ? 

Do  I  whose  wisdom  cannot  show 

How  the  green  blade  doth  spring  and  grow, 

'  Midst  worlds  that  mock  at  me  from  thence, 

Stand  the  first,  high  Intelligence  ? 

Yet  banished  here,  far  from  the  skies, 

Groping  'midst  this  world's  gloom  about — 
My  lamp  obscured  by  mists  that  rise, 

Not  of  the  Truth,  but  mine  own  doubt, 
I've  said,  To  see  Him  with  mine  eyes, 

Oh,  that  some  path  might  find  Him  out ! 
So  foolish  am  I  ? — Hath  his  word 

Then  ceased  ?  or  is  his  providence 
"With  daily  utterance  no  more  heard  ? 

Turn  I  from  these  to  grosser  sense  ? 
Should  some  pure  Seraph,  even  now, 

In  answer  to  my  call  appear, 
Bright  from  the  throne  where  such  do  bow — 

Doth  not  a  still  voice  yet  more  near 
Whisper  all  that  I  then  might  hear  ? 
Thus  would  he  speak,  Though  legions  were 
Like  me,  to  teach,  they  could  impart 

To  thee  no  more  abounding  light 

19 


THE   DINING-KOOM 

Than  that  now  shed  upon  thine  heart. 

Wandering  long  since  in  rayless  night 
Thy  Saviour  found  thee.     On  a  way 

He  placed  thy  feet  that  upward  led, 
Yet  told  thee  dark  clouds  round  it  lay; 

Thy  soul  rejoiced,  was  comforted 
Through  darkness  even,  to  hope  for  day — 
Now,  dost  thou  murmur,  faint  and  pine 
Because  those  promised  clouds  are  thine  ? 
Think'st  thou  such  mists  can  blind  his  eye, 
Or  seen  not,  he  hath  passed  thee  by  ? 
Canst  thou  not  trust  ?     Be  still,  oh  man, 

And  when  'midst  shadows  thou  must  wait, 
Know  they  are  part  of  love's  great  plan — 

Kemember  now  thy  first  estate ! 

Weary  not  of  thine  earthly  days — 

Cut  off  from  them,  how  couldst  thou  rear 

An  offering  to  thy  Maker's  praise  ? 
Nor  let  thine  earthly  task  appear 

Beneath  thee ;  and  in  secret  cry, 

All  things  are  brief  and  fleeting  here — 

My  soul  doth  loathe  them,  let  me  die ! 

Doth  he  who  polisheth  the  gem 

To  deck  some  royal  diadem, 


OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE.  219 

Or  shapes  the  block  for  palace  walls 
Work  velvet-clothed,  in  gilded  halls  ? 
So  is  thy  task  to  thee  unknown, 
But  when  it  shall  be  done  at  last, 
These  fleshly  garments  from  thee  cast, 
And  earth's  vast  house  of  toil  o'erthrown, 
Then  shall  its  end  to  thee  be  shown — 
Each  block,  each  jewel  shalt  thou  see 
Fixed  beauteous  in  eternity ! 


THE    TWO    GKAVES. 

HEKE  are  two  graves  with  flowers  overgrown — 
No  monument  doth  tell  who  lies  beneath, 

Or  how  the  swift- winged  years  have  come  and  flown 
Since  they  were  laid  here  by  the  hand  of  death. 

Yet  was  there  once  a  time  when  smooth  and  green 
This  sod  unbroken  lay  in  the  cool  shade ; 

Renewed  each  Spring  its  grassy  dress  was  seen, 
Till  autumn  frosts  returning,  made  it  fade. 

This  virgin  soil,  that  ne'er  upheaved  before, 
To  dust  received  those  who  of  dust  were  born, 

Then  closed  again  to  be  disturbed  no  more 
Till  they  shall  rend  it  on  the  Judgment  morn. 


THE  TWO   GRAVES.  221 

I  now,  a  wand'rer  on  a  toilsome  way, 

To  view  this  quiet  resting-place,  am  brought, 

And  lingering  here  as  fades  the  summer's  day 
Find  'mid  its  quiet  beauties  food  for  thought. 

Though  still  and  lonely  now,  I  do  not  doubt 
There  has  another  scene  been  witnessed  here, 

When  from  the  stricken  heart  deep  grief  flowed  out, 
And  where  these  flowers  spring,  fell  the  bitter  tear. 

But  now  perchance  the  stricken  heart  is  gone 

That  yearned  for  those  who  lie  beneath  this  spot ; 

Perchance  of  all  who  tread  the  earth,  not  one 
Eemembereth  their  image  or  their  lot ! 

And  this  is  but  the  common  fate  of  all — 

The  world  forgets  us,  though  we  loved  it  well, 

And  the  few  kindred  hearts  that  weep  our  fall, 
Soon  following  us  are  fallen  where  we  fell. 

It  is  not  then  upon  your  earthly  state, 

Ye  nameless  slumb'rers  who  lie  here  at  rest, 

That  lingering  thus  I  muse  and  meditate 
As  fades  the  day  along  the  golden  west ! 


222  THE  TWO   GRAVES. 

Thougli  ye  had  many  lovers  and  few  foes, 

Though  crown  or  coronet  hath  pressed  your  brow, 

Though  ye  were  poor  and  suffered  all  the  woes 
Of  keenest  want — what  doth  it  matter  now  ? 

Earth's  sorrows  and  her  sweetest  joys  forgot, 

The  things  ye  sought  in  vain  and  those  ye  won — 

That  pitied  and  that  envied  in  your  lot 
Are  now  alike  all  gone,  forever  gone ! 

Not  to  the  fleeting  things  of  time,  which  die 
As  this  frail  dust  returns  to  God,  its  breath, 

Thought  turns  with  silent,  retrospective  eye, 
But  to  the  soul,  the  soul  that  knows  no  death. 

Were  ye  of  spirits  broken,  contrite,  meek, 
Eadiant  on  earth  with  Heaven's  hues  of  love  ? 

Did  ye  pass  here  the  offered  dross  to  seek 
The  pure  gold  of  the  treasury  above  ? 

Blest  thought !     It  may  be  that  the  path  of  prayer 
Across  life's  waste  these  mould'ring  feet  have  trod — 

That  cheered  by  faith,  through  all  this  night  of  care 
With  joyful  steps  they  hasten'd  home  to  God ! 


THE  TWO   GEAVES.  223 

In  sweetest  slumber  rests  the  weary  head 

If  Jesus  the  still  watches  o'er  it  keep, 
More  soft  than  couch  of  down  this  narrow  bed 

"When  here  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 


THE    EIYEK. 

I  SAT  in  my  porch  beside  the  River 

Upon  a  cloudy  morn, 

While  the  waters  were  smooth  as  polished  glass 
And  the  great  wide  flood  did  silent  pass, 

With  no  ripple  upon  it  borne. 
Close  by  the  brink  of  the  steep  high  shore 
A  few  steps  from  my  cottage  door, 
Branching  and  tall  and  fair  to  see — 
There  grew  a  Balm-of-Gilead  tree. 
Its  boughs  were  loaded  with  morning  dew, 
Among  them  a  golden  Oriole  flew, 
He  whistled  and  hopped  from  stem  to  stem, 
And  the  dew-drops  fell  in  showers  again. 
Oh  bird,  who  bid  thee,  tell  me  who, 
To  scatter  these  glittering  drops  of  dew? 


THE   RIVEK,  225 

* 

"Now  down  the  stream  on  the  sandy  beach, 

Where  the  river  inland  takes  a  reach, 

I  see  forms  on  the  narrow  ledge, 

Toiling  up  from  the  water's  edge — 

They  are  fishermen,  their  net  they  draw. 

Out  in  the  current  all  night  it  lay — 

This  morn  enforcing  nature's  law 

They  seek  to  collect  from  the  stream  his  debt 

For  the  deep,  broad  highway  to  him  let 

By  the  shore,  and  to  them  the  stream  doth  pay. 

Back  from  the  water  upon  the  green 
The  prey  are  thrown.     With  silvery  sheen 
On  the  fresh  grass,  a  lifeless  heap, 
Lie  the  lost  wanderers  of  the  deep. 
Then  comes  the  dealer  from  the  town, 
The  price  is  named — he  counts  it  down, 
The  men  their  long  night's  labor  sell. 
Borne  with  the  tide  the  buyer  hastes 
To  where  the  outspread  city  lies ; 
As  there  to-morrow,  some  diner  tastes, 
The  captive  dressed  to  please  him  well, 
Little  he'll  think  of  the  fisherman's  prize, 
Or  of  him  who  sits  here  to  moralize ! 


226  THE   RIVER. 

Far  over  toward  the  opposite  shore — 
Seeming  a  toy  in  bulk,  no  more, 
I  see  a  lab'ring  boat  pressed  slow, 
Against  the  current's  baffling  flow, 
And  the  rower's  form  now  can  I  see 
Sway  back  and  forward  measuredly. 
Whither  thy  course,  oh  little  boat, 
That  safe  o'er  wat'ry  depths  dost  float  ? 
And  what  thy  thought,  oh  weary  rower, 
That  plies  the  oar  with  ceaseless  power? 
So  ships  do  dot  the  ocean  wide, 
O'er  vales  and  hills  beneath  they  ride, 
Each  on  its  path  from  sea  to  sea, 

Each  toward  some  port  from  shore  to  shore, 
Some  to  arrive  right  merrily, 

But  some  to  see  land  never  more ! 

Ilark,  a  loud  splash ! — see,  down  it  goes ! 

A  great  fish  that  had  leaped  in  air, 
From  the  still  river.     Round  it  throws 

The  thin  spray  like  a  fountain  there, 
And  widening  circles  quickly  spread 
All  o'er  the  glassy,  liquid  bed, 
Marring  the  mirrored  wat'ry  plain, 
Where  curved  the  heavens  beneath  again. 


THE   RIVER.  227 

How  many  play  now  in  the  deep 
O'er  which  my  glance  doth  vigil  keep, 
Though  on  the  surface  all  is  still ! 
Little  we  know  of  what  doth  fill 
The  space  about  us.     For  our  sight 
Is  partial  only ;  boundless  height 
Towers  above  us ;  depths  below 
Sinking  far  from  our  knowledge,  go. 
Objects  we  note  not,  daily  passed, 
Are  tenanted  by  peoples  vast ; 
The  very  air  that  empty  seems, 
Holding  no  forms  save  of  our  dreams, 
And  marred  when  but  a  mote  floats  by, 
Is  so  but  to  th'  imperfect  eye. 
Yet  skill  to  do  that  dim  eye  hath 

That  task  for  which  it  was  designed — 
It  lighteth  here  our  narrow  path, 

To  worlds  unnumbered  leaves  us  blind. 

Thus  do  I  sit  and  muse  alone 
In  seeming  idleness — till  flown 
Are  precious  moments  that  my  toil 
Might  have  enriched  with  golden  spoil. 
And  yet,  perchance,  some  weary  heart 
That  once  dwelt  'midst  a  kindred  scene 


228  THE  RIVER. 

But  now  is  shut  by  want  apart, 

May  thus  be  brought  where  I  have  been, 

And  through  my  eyes  with  new  delight 

Look  on  each  old,  familiar  sight. 

We  service  to  each  other  owe 

Of  various  sort :  in  need  we  go, 

Beside  the  visible  distress 

From  hunger,  thirst,  and  nakedness — 

Oft'ner  than  these  the  want  we  find 

Deep  out  of  sight,  within  the  mind. 

From  him  who  hath  not  gold  to  give, 

We  yet  may  precious  gifts  receive. 

But  e'er  thou  turnest  now  away 
From  the  still  stream — a  moment  stay, 
While  I  rehearse  another  thought 
By  its  calm  beauty  often  brought. 

When  tranquil  morning  fills  the  skies, 
Or  noon  to  heaven's  blue  height  doth  rise, 
Or  when  at  evening  gently  fall 
Those  beams  that  bathe  and  soften  all, 
Then  gazing  this  deep  river  o'er 
To  yonder  fair  and  distant  shore, 


THE    KIVER.  229 

I  think  upon  the  Promised  Land. 
How  I  shall  one  day  pass  the  flood, 
And  e'en  as  on  that  shore  I  stood, 

So  on  its  blissful  borders  stand. 
Then  on  those  very  fields  of  green 
Methinks  bright  winged  forms  are  seen 

Hasting  with  smiles  to  welcome  me — 
They  draw  me  dripping  from  the  tide, 
Each  strikes  the  bright  harp  by  his  side, 

They  shout  at  my  delivery ! 
Ah !  yonder  shores  of  wood  and  field 
Cannot  in  truth  such  blessings  yield, 

Nor  there  have  heavenly  ones  their  birth : 
'Tis  but  my  thought !  Though  I  were  there, 
I  still  this  evil  heart  would  bear 

And  meet  but  dwellers  on  the  earth. 
Yet  thus  I  love  midst  visible  things 
That  busy  hope  which  to  me  brings 

Those  heavenly  sights  that  like  them  seem, 
For  there  is  such  a  better  land, 
And  I  upon  its  shores  will  stand, 

Eising  from  Jordan's  cold,  deep  stream. 

There  if  thou  Christ's  disciple  art, 
Shall  each  throned  sorrow  flee  thy  heart 
20 


230  THE   RIVER. 

That  now  with  scourgings  doth  oppress ; 
Labor  that  shackles  here  thine  arm 
Shall  lose  its  power  to  do  thee  harm, 

And  God  thy  upward  path  shall  bless. 
Toil  shall  not  there  mix  with  my  song, 
Nor  shall  I,  when  my  task  is  done, 

Find  motives  mingled  so  therein, 
That  e'en  my  work  most  perfect,  must 
Become  a  thing  of  simple  trust, 

Lest  it  be  counted  wholly  sin. 

Oh !  glorious  day — oh !  wished  for  morn, 
Still  with  rich  hues  my  skies  adorn, 

But  burn  not  yet  too  dazzling  bright, 
Lest  I  faint  here  'midst  griefs  and  pains, 
Nor  patient  bear  what  yet  remains, 

With  Heaven  so  opened  to  my  sight  1 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF   A   CHRISTIAN. 

How  various  are  the  forms, 

0  Death,  which  coming  to  us  thou  dost  wear, 
Upon  the  battle-field — in  ocean's  storms, 

Or  wasting  us  by  heavy  loads  of  care. 

Or  mostly  with  the  pangs 

Of  slow  disease — 'midst  trembling,  hope,  and  doubt 
The  precious  life  by  but  a  weak  thread  hangs ; 

The  flame  sinks  low,  reviveth — and  goes  out! 

But  not  thus  didst  thou  come 

To  him  who  lying  down  with  us  at  night, 
Thankful  to  share  a  cherished  earthly  home, 

Entered  a  better  Rest  ere  rose  the  light. 


ON   THE   DEATH   OF  A   CHRISTIAN. 

We  woke  that  Sabbath  morn 

To  cold,  dull  prayers  and  feeble  offerings; 
"We  knew  not,  even  then,  his  songs  were  borne 

From  where  the  soul,  new-robed,  with  angels  sings ! 

Would  we  the  spirit  call 

Back  from  its  seat  before  th'  uplifted  Throne  ? 
So  far  a  height — so  vast  a  depth  to  fall  ? 

The  thought  shows  heavenly  things  to  us  unknown. 

How  can  the  spirit  wear 

That  hath  arrayed  been  in  a  blood-washed  dress, 
The  flesh  again  ? — How  from  communion  there 

Walk  with  us  through  this  howling  wilderness? 

One  rapturous  moment  brief 

In  Heaven — one  step  upon  that  blissful  shore, 
Unfits  us  for  this  world — its  cares,  its  grief, 

We  may  not  know  their  touch  forevermore  I 

Ah !  not  for  us  to  mourn 

Do  Christ's  dead  call.    Nor  may  we  weeping  stand 
As  if  o'er  some  dark  ocean  they  were  borne — 

We  toss  'midst  storms,  but  they  have  reached  the  land ! 


WITHIN  this  little  house  alone 

Dwelt  one  who  to  the  heavens  hath  gone; 

Of  lowliest  race,  to  bondage  born, 

No  lofty  deeds  her  life  adorn ; 

She  rested  here  at  each  day's  close, 

Here  with  the  morn  to  labor  rose. 

Poor  was  she,  and  her  dwelling  poor, 

I  would  have  blushed  to  change  with  her ; 

But  where  on  high  the  angels  bow, 

How  would  my  soul  love  to  change  now ! 

Often  I  saw  her  laboring  nigh, 
Oft,  without  thought,  have  I  passed  by, 
And  spoken  kindly,  for  all  knew 
Great  were  her  virtues — her  faults  few ; 
Yet  did  I  never  realize 
That  here  dwelt  one  so  near  the  skies. 
20* 


234  PHCEBE  ANN  JACOB'S   COTTAGE. 

The  hushed  and  silent  midnight  air 
From  here  hath  borne  aloff  her  prayer; 
The  dim  faint  dawn,  the  middle  day, 
Evening,  that  sweeps  day's  beams  away, 
The  task  not  yet  begun,  or  o'er, 
Have  seen  her  close  this  humble  door, 
And  go  within,  alone  to  pray. 

This  very  room  that  stoops  so  low, 
Held  joys  the  Palace  scarce  may  know, 
When  to  the  waiting  heart  prayer  brings 
To  the  banquet  there,  the  King  of  kings. 

It  was  within  these  narrow  walls, 

At  some  unknown  hour  of  the  night, 
Death  stood,  as  when  the  soul  he  calls, 

Slow  rising  on  the  failing  sight. 
Throughout  the  land,  an  hcrur  before, 
He  knocked  at  many  a  rich  man's  door, 
And  heard  the  cry  of  agony, 
The  prayer  within  :  Oh,  pass  me  by ! 
But  when  he  reached  this  lowly  cot, 
The  prayer  was,  Ah,  pass  by  me  not ! 
And  Death  himself  stood  rev'rently. 


PHCEBE  ANN  JACOB'S  COTTAGE.  235 

Tell  me,  my  soul,  now  none  are  nigh, 
And  we  may  commune  secretly, 
Though  thou  wert  offered  Genius,  Power, 
Fame,  Eiches,  for  the  dying  hour, 
Wouldst  thou  not  all  of  them  forego, 
And  gladly  want  and  suffering  know, 
If  but  at  last,  his  dreaded  dart 
Might  come  so  welcomed  to  thy  heart  ? 


SAVED   BY   GKACE. 

'Tis  vain,  the  endeavor  to  make  pure 
Our  hearts  before  God's  sight, 

They  cannot  our  own  search  endure, 
By  Eeason's  partial  light. 

For  though  with  man,  pride  may  forbid, 
We  should  one  fault  confide, 

Who  feels  not  in  his  bosom  hid, 
That  many  yet  abide  ? 

But  when  the  spirit  hath  been  taught 

God's  perfect  Law,  it  feels 
The  sin  that  tinges  but  the  thought, 

The  guilt  no  word  reveals. 


SAVED  BY  GRACE.  237 

What  seemed  to  mar  some  acts  before, 

From  passion,  envy,  hate, 
Now  spreading  blots  the  whole  life  o'er, 

And  proves  our  whole  estate. 

With  this  new  light,  doth  knowledge  come 

That  succor  is  on  high ; 
That  but  One  can  avert  man's  doom, 

His  nature  purify. 

X 

But  not  quite  grasped  yet,  by  the  heart, 

These  new  truths  to  it  given, 
We  mostly  still  would  weave  a  part 

Of  our  own  dress,  for  heaven. 

We  strive,  but  sin  still  cleaves  to  us ; 

We  weep  o'er  faults  confessed, 
And  cry :    Ah,  ne'er  polluted  thus, 

Shall  we  attain  that  Eest ! 

9 
Until  oft  raised  and  fall'n  again, 

Oft  baffled  to  and  fro, 
We  find  our  strength  is  spent  in  vain, 
And  that  it  must  be  so. 


238  SAVED  BY  GRACE. 

Then  giving  those  hard  labors  o'er, 
Which  would  for  sin  atone, 

We're  taught  more  deeply  than  before : 
Grace  saves  us — Grace,  alone ! 


THE   PHILADELPHIA  LIBEAEY. 

DEMURE  and  without  pomp,  but  strong  in  might, 
Here  marshalled  is  a  host  all  officered, 

Unarmed,  yet  ever  ready  for  the  fight — 
Silent,  yet  even  by  the  deaf  ear  heard. 

Soldiers  not  fleshly,  but  that  cope  with  thought, 
Their  wounds  are  to  the  surgeon  never  told ; 

Husbandmen  who  the  seeds  of  truth  have  brought, 
That  buried  deep  bring  forth  an  hundred  fold. 

They  go  forth  noiselessly  to  conflict,  each 
Some  separate  field,  some  single  foe  to  find ; 

They  fight  where  the  swift  bullet  cannot  reach, 
On  the  wide  battle  ground  of  heart  and  mind. 


2-40  THE   PHILADELPHIA   LIBRARY. 

And  here  are  thousands  of  them !  at  their  call, 
Though  voiceless,  youth  and  hoary  age  I  see, 

Come  to  bear  forth  this  host,  who  one  and  all 
Aim  but  for  good  or  ill,  at  victory. 

Friend,  were  I  to  approach  thee  now  and  seek 
As  but  a  stranger  to  press  my  discourse, 

Thou  wouldst  esteem  me  rude,  and  strong  or  weak, 
My  argument  unsought  would  lack  its  force. 

Yet  one  as  strange  thou  bearest  with  thee  hence, 
As  true  to  succor,  or  as  bold  for  strife ; 

One  without  form  of  flesh  or  utterance, 
But  to  thy  rational  part  as  full  of  life. 

Unto  thy  home  thou  hast'nest  with  it — there 
Wilt  bring  it  to  thy  chamber,  and  when  night 

Lifteth  a  little  while  man's  load  of  care, 

Wilt  trim  for  it,  perchance,  thy  lonely  light ; 

Then,  as  the  young  disciple  doth  draw  near, 
When  Wisdom  whispers  of  her  hidden  way, 

Thou  patient  waiting  wilt  bend  down  to  hear, 
And  search  what  in  its  treasure-house  may  lay. 


THE   PHILADELPHIA   LIBRARY-.  241 

Sweet  poison  that  enravishes  the  taste, 

Hangs  like  a  fragrant  spell  upon  the  breath, 

But  turns  the  budding  heart  into  a  waste 
Barren  and  noxious,  a  wide  waste  of  death ! 

Or  doth  that  treasure-house  rare  jewels  hold, 
Hidden  there  by  some  pilgrim  gone  before  ? 

Eobes  undefiled  that  may  the  soul  enfold, 
Clothing  it  as  a  Prince  forevermore  ? 

Oh,  Eeader,  or  thou  man  of  sober  thought, 

Come  forth  with  me.    Look  through  a  golden  gate ; 

The  sun  departs !    Yet  not  for  this  I  brought 
Thee  to  behold  his  fading,  regal  state. 

But  turn  thy  back  toward  him  and  gaze  on  high ; 

The  light  from  out  heaven's  spreading  arch  of  blue 
Ebbs  like  a  flood !    Now  searching  all  the  sky, 

One  star  burns  faint — and  there  another  too ! 

They  come,  they  come,  th'  innumerable  host — 

See  how  they  thicken  through  the  unveiled  height ! 

Oh  sea,  that  knoweth  not  a  boundary  coast ! 
Oh,  space  eternal,  stretching  from  my  sight ! 
21 


242 


THE   PHILADELPHIA    LIBKARY. 


Know'st  thou  that  disembodied  soon,  thy  soul 

May  pass  from  world  to  world,  through  that  far  space 

When  He,  whom  all  worlds  worship  as  they  roll, 
Shall  call  thee  to  behold  Him,  face  to  face  ? 

Little  we  know  the  value  of  an  hour, 

Whether  we  read,  or  speak,  or  muse,  or  write — 

Eisen  again — clothed  with  condemning  power, 
Moments  shall  stretch  like  armies  on  our  sight ! 

Up  from  the  tomb  their  multitudes  shall  climb, 
And  gather  round  us.     The  awakening  eye 

Op'ning  from  death,  shall  look  again  on  Time 

Unsepulchred,  its  deeds  and  thoughts  brought  nigh. 


"PUTTING   OFF." 

STRIVING  in  coward  listlessness 

Each  effort  still  to  shun — 
How  can  the  aid  we  pray  for,  bless 

Our  labors  ne'er  begun  ? 

Go  boldly  up — each  hind'rance  meet, 

Assail  that  nearest  by, 
To  win  a  part,  to  bear  defeat 

Is  better  than  to  fly  ! 

How  know'st  thou  but  some  gem  most  rare 

Hid  in  this  moment  lies  ? 
Time  is  a  mine.     Nor  here  nor  there — 

Sure  are  we  of  the  prize. 


244  PUTTING  OFF. 

He  who  the  search  unwearied  keeps 
With  zealous,  constant  mind, 

May  win,  perchance,  but  he  who  sleeps 
Surely  no  wealth  shall  find. 

The  hour  will  not  fold  its  wings, 
Onward  thy  steps  are  pressed — 

Slothful  and  diligent  it  brings 
Where  both  alike  must  rest.    • 

If  it  be  sweet,  when  day  is  past, 
Though  not  increased  thy  store, 

To  think  not  to  th'  endeavor  lost 
Its  fruitless  moments  were, 

How,  sweeter  far,  will  be  at  length 
As  wanes  life's  setting  sun, 

The  thought,  not  wasted  was  its  strength, 
Though  nothing  more  be  won. 


AUTUMN. 

FROM  the  vale  up  the  mountain's  side 
Like  a  vast  billow,  now  we  see 

Autumn  doth  roll  her  golden  tide 
O'er  field  and  forest,  flower  and  tree. 

In  wailing  gusts  the  winds  grown  chill, 
Mock  at  the  weak  bright-shining  sun, 

The  cry  comes  forth  from  vale  and  hill, 
Summer  is  done — sweet  summer's  done ! 


21* 


THE   LOFTY   PLACE. 

HE  who  fills  a  lofty  place, 

Though  he  climbed  there  to  do  good, 
If  one  spot  his  robes  deface 

Shows  it  to  the  world  abroad. 

So  the  man  who  to  some  work 

Of  kindness  would  devote  his  days, 

If  'mid  his  virtues  one  fault  lurk 

May  gain,  perchance,  more  blame  than  praise. 

And  some,  it  may  be,  who  in  heart 
Are  true — and  long  with  earnest  will 

To  act,  take  not  the  laborer's  part 
Because  they  feel  their  frailties  still. 


THE  LOFTY  PLACE.  247 

And  truly,  bitterness  he  reaps 

Who  sowing  zeal,  the  world  calls  it, 
For  some  sin  o'er  which  he  too  weeps — 

The  cloaking  of  the  hypocrite ! 

Yet  is  it  just,  thus  to  desert 

For  our  small  loss  the  world's  great  cause  ? 
Willing  to  toil  but  bear  no  hurt, 

Serve  we  our  King  for  man's  applause  ? 

No,  nor  doth  censure  me  defraud, 

Though  battling  in  my  place  I  be, 
The  good  I  do  belongs  to  God, 

My  faults  alone  belong  to  me. 

And  why  should  I  so  keenly  feel 

What  foes  may  even  falsely  say — 
Am  I  not  for  sins  deeper  still 

Mine  own  accuser  day  by  day  ? 

My  Master  but  fulfils  my  word, 

I  tell  him  for  his  sake  alone, 
Not  mine  own  gain,  I  wield  the  sword 

And  praise  him  for  my  victories  won ! 


248  THE   LOFTY  PLACE. 

'Tis  well.     In  mine  infirmity, 

Not  in  my  strength  shall  swell  my  song- 
Mine  own  need  shall  my  glory  be, 

When  weak  I  am,  then  am  I  strong ! 

Only,  O  Lord,  thou  near  me  keep, 
Lest  not  her  foes,  but  Truth,  I  bind, 

Nor  let  me  from  man's  scoffing  reap 
New  pride,  but  lowliness  of  mind. 

Then  shall  thy  Word  be  far  proclaimed, 
But  I  who  speak,  unhonored  passed — 

The  crown  not  by  my  merits  gained, 
Yet  worn,  thine  own  free  gift  at  last  I 


THE    HISTOEY    OF    A    DOLLAE. 

BY  looking  on  me  you  may  see, 

Eaised  in  small  figures  from  the  gold, 
The  number  Eighteen-fifty-three; 

I  am,  then,  scarce  yet  four  years  old. 
The  milling  round  my  narrow  rim, 

The  Laurel- wreath,  the  lettering  there, 
By  Traffic's  hand  not  yet  worn  dim, 

Show,  as  at  first,  distinct  and  fair. 
'Tis  true,  for  many  ages  gone, 
A  little  shapeless  mass  unknown, 
1  glittered  'neath  a  mountain  stream, 

'Midst  pebbles  that  around  me  lay, 
Nor  did  my  worth  above  theirs  deem, 

As  born  to  higher  lot  than  they. 
But  rude  men  coming  forth  at  last, 
Scooped  us  both  up  in  eager  haste; 
I  was  retained — they  back  were  cast, 


250 


(Though  formed  alike,  the  stones  and  I, 
'Twas  hard  to  guess  the  reason  why.) 

Brief  with  these  strangers  was  my  stay ; 
They  hoarding  me  with  many  more, 
Sent  their  accumulated  store 

We  knew  not  where — far,  far  away, 
Nor  saw  I  now  again  the  light, 
Till  on  a  morning  calm  and  bright 
I  was  poured  forth  upon  a  floor, 

'Midst  drossy  piles  of  various  tint; 
The  room  was  broad  and  bare  and  high ; 
I  heard  the  clank  of  wheels  near  by, 

In  short,  I  was  now  in  the  Mint. 
Here  the  engraved  and  polished  dies, 

Pressed  each  to  each,  with  crushing  power, 
My  lustre,  perfect  shape  and  size, 
The  letters  in  relief  that  rise 

Gave  me  as  you  behold  this  hour. 

Next,  where  more  like  me,  bright  and  new, 

Were  piled  along  in  even  rank, 
I  found  myself  exposed  to  view, 

And  learned  the  place  was  called  a  Bank. 
Ever  swayed  to  and  fro  the  door, 


OF   A   DOLLAR.  251 

And  ceaselessly  the  great  crowd  came — 
Of  all  the  purpose  seemed  the  same. 

I  marvelled  what  they  came  there  for; 
Till  lengthening  lines  of  emptiness, 
Showing  our  bright  heaps  less  and  less, 
For  the  first  time  I  was  aware 
We  were  the  great  attraction  there, 
And  that  the  marble  building  high, 
The  ranks  of  clerks  there  writing  by, 
The  comers  multitudinous, 

And  all  the  eye  saw,  were  for  us. 
****** 

Soon  parted  with  as  change,  or  pay, 
I  found  myself  that  very  day 

In  a  dim  lonely -looking  room, 
Where  one,*  a  table  leaning  o'er, 

'Midst  dust  and  manuscripts  and  gloom, 
Seemed  on  a  written  page  to  pore. 
Awhile  he  wrote,  he  paused,  and  then 
Wrote  on  at  swiftest  pace  again, 
As  though  the  walls  that  prison  thought 
Were  breached  and  crowds  were  rushing  out. 
Again  he  paused,  and  silently 
With  dipped  pen  and  uplifted  eye, 

*  The  Philosopher. 


252  THE  HISTORY 

Waited  on  thought — but  as  before 
Without  him  ope'd  the  wondrous  door, 
So  now,  beyond  his  weak  assault, 
'Twas  shut  and  held  by  bar  and  bolt. 
Then  from  that  waiting  attitude 
Eelaxed,  by  brief  delay  subdued, 
His  idle  pen  began  to  trace 
Along  the  edge  some  scribbled  face. 
The  stream  was  dust!  the  landscape  air! 
For  the  rich  banquet  just  spread  there, 
The  board  was  now  swept  clean  and  bare ! 

Leaning  back,  Thus  it  is,  he  said, 
The  herd  comes  sweeping  on  my  sight ; 

Ere  one  is  taken,  all  are  fled, 
I  leap  from  bright  noon  to  midnight ; 

Ye  who  whole  libraries  have  read, 
Know  not  what  'tis  one  page  to  write. 

Then  changing  the  desponding  tone, 
Continued,  But  not  this  will  bring 

The  fugitives  back,  from  me  gone. 
Judgment,  the  power  of  Eeasoning, 
Who  when  fair  Fancy  takes  to  wing 
Still  sitteth  lowly  on  the  throne, 
Tells  me  that  toil  alone  will  bind, 
To  use  the  powers  of  my  mind. 


OF  A   DOLLAR.  253 

Genius  (still  but  a  fettered  gift) 
From  labor's  law  is  not  exempt, 
And  he  who  waits  the  overflow, 
Idly  of  the  deep  well  below, 
Or  is  content  when  he  hath  found 
The  ore  that  lies  above  the  ground, 
Shall  not  excel.     We  must  dig  deep, 
And  labor  the  mind's  wealth  to  heap, 
Or  in  its  covered  depths  to  find 
What  shall  bring  profit  to  mankind. 
And  how  this  calm  enthroned  Sense, 
Doth  to  the  list'ning  heart  dispense, 
Its  verdict  on  this  world's  renown ! 

Fame  is  a  dweller  in  the  street, 
The  public  crier  of  the  town, 

No  more !  for  when  in  some  retreat 

Like  this,  alone,  I  take  my  seat, 
She  followeth  not,  or  melts  to  air 
A  form  of  vapor  entering  there, 
And  I  am  left  as  stripped  and  bare, 
As  when  my  name  was  all  unknown. 
That  circle  of  our  consciousness 

Which  lieth  inmost,  I  do  find 
Her  influence  will  not  confess : 

I  thought  'twould  reach  it  and  would  bind 

22 


254  THE    HISTORY 

The  wound  up,  or  that  void  would  fill, 
Which  there  do  ache  and  hunger  still ; 
But  Fame  hath  neither  balm  nor  food, 
It  holdeth  not  the  coveted  good, 
And  lacks  in  this  last  want  for  me 
All  substance,  bulk,  solidity. 
At  this  he  placed  me  near  the  sheet 

That  laid  before  him  written  on, 
And  with  these  words  my  form  did  greet : 

Thou  whom  all  ills  are  heaped  upon, 
Whom  none  o'er  all  the  world  refuse, 
And  yet  not  one  but  doth  abuse, 
I  hold  it  as  my  final  thought, 
Thou  art  the  chief  good  to  be  sought. 
For  not  the  promise  judging  by, 

But  the  performance,  luring  Fame 
Cov'nants  the  soul's  want  to  supply 

And  fails.     Thou  thing  of  lowlier  name, 
Askest  not  in  thee  to  confide 
For  this,  but  giveth  all  beside. 
And  as  for  that — I  know  not  what, 

The  thirst  within,  the  sore,  the  leech, 
The  void,  fair  nature's  counterplot, 

I  do  believe  no  arm  can  reach, 
Or  balm  can  ease  the  aching  spot, 


OF   A   BOLLAK.  255 

And  seeking  makes,  like  search,  in  hell, 
Torture  more  unendurable." 

I  learned  my  sophist  was  not  poor, 

My  virtue's  grave  expositor, 

For  ere  another  week  was  fled, 

With  many  more  deposited, 

He  placed  me  safe  in  Bank  once  more. 

Now  as  I  laid  a  time  at  rest, 

In  a  strong  vault  that  was  replete 
"With  bars  and  bolts  no  power  might  wrest, 

No  cause  is  it  for  scorn  unmeet, 
If  in  pure  truth  it  be  confessed, 

I  was  grown  great  in  self-conceit ; 
For  looking  back  I  plain  could  see, 
The  loftiest  nimbly  stooped  for  me, 
And  even  the  dullest  in  the  land 
Had  wit  my  worth  to  understand. 
So  that  those  ages  when  unsought 
'Midst  pebble-stones  had  been  my  lot, 
Were,  like  low  lineage,  forgot. 

At  length  forth  summoned  to  the  light, 
From  the  strong  hold  where  I  had  lain, 


256  THE   HISTORY 

I  took,  with  hundreds  more  as  bright, 

My  turn,  and  was  paid  out  again. 
Into  strange  hands  I  now  was  cast, 
For  by  some  seeming  whim  perverse, 
My  new  lord*  scarce  had  filled  his  purse, 
When  through  a  dark  street  he  made  haste, 
And  entering  at  a  lowly  door, 
Was  'midst  the  children  of  the  poor. 
As  the  wan,  suffering  group  stood  by, 
A  tear  slow  gathered  in  his  eye, 
And  welling  o'er  dropped  silently. 
Then,  as  with  kind  encouragement, 
And  gifts,  he  cheered  those  spirits  faint, 
I  knew  why  he  was  thither  sent. 
Later,  round  his  own  fireside, 

As  by  some  bow  of  promise  spanned, 
Yiewless,  but  felt,  at  eventide, 

I  gathered  saw  a  happier  band — 
Not  splendor,  pomp,  nor  show  were  there, 
The  light  of  love  the  place  made  fair. 
About  the  spread  board  did  I  see 

The  circle  all  with  looks  downcast, 
Pause  a  brief  moment  rev'rently 

Ere  sharing  in  the  glad  repast, 

*  The  money-loving  Christian. 


OF   A   DOLLAK.  257 

As  though,  some  hidden  principle 
Deeper  than  words,  within  might  dwell. 
Next,  to  a  lofty  building  where 

Went  up  a  wide,  commingling  throng, 
He  bore  me,  with  th'  assembly  there, 

Lifting  his  voice  in  solemn  song. 
In  short,  a  calm  pervading  sense, 

Another  spirit  that  he  bore, 
Told  me  there  was  a  difference 

Between  him  and  those  gone  before ; 
Yet  while  new  light  around  me  beamed, 
This  difference  against  me  seemed. 
Thus  was  it  till  a  season  gone, 
And  closer  observation  won, 
By  nicest  search  I  did  behold, 
Like  dust  upon  the  polished  gold, 
Spots  the  first  glance  had  left  untold. 
And  once  discerned,  my  jealous  eye, 
Open  and  ever  watchful  nigh, 
These  that  at  first  seemed  specks,  no  more, 
Began  to  spread  the  whole  breadth  o'er. 
I  learned,  another  influence 

Within  his  breast,  the  power  to  gain, 
Warred  day  and  night  to  drive  Him  hence, 

Who  now  ruled  o'er  the  soul's  domain — 
22* 


258  THE   HISTORY 

And  like  some  strong,  bold  rebel  chief, 
(Or  lingering  taint  of  unbelief ) 

Ever  disturbed  there,  the  King's  reign. 
Not  by  admitted  principle, 

But  lapse  indulged,  some  charity, 
Some  gift  my  master  might  spare  well, 

Was  hidden  oft  while  want  passed  by, 
Or  by  that  power  which  doth  compel, 

O'ercome,  'twas  given  grudgingly. 
With  secret  longing,  still  he  loved 

This  world's  estate.     The  fear  of  want, 
Or  that  by  garners  full  removed, 
The  thought  they  knew  on  increase,  proved 

Thorns  to  the  better  covenant. 
About  this  time  it  was,  one  day, 
As  he  from  suffering  turned  away, 
There  seemed  before  me,  drawn  apart, 
A  passage  that  revealed  his  heart. 

Methought  within  its  narrow  space, 
Clothed  in  pure  white,  upon  a  Throne, 

One  crowned  sat:  mild  beauty,  grace, 
And  light,  serene  around  him  shone, 

Eyes  looking  from  this  world  of  care, 

No  vision  e'er  beheld  more  fair. 


OF  A   DOLLAR.  259 

But  as  I  gazed,  one  from  beneath, 

Who  ever  looked  upon  that  crown, 
Did  in  my  sight  a  sword  unsheath, 

And  war  to  cast  the  Monarch  down, 
Disquieted,  robbed  of  repose, 
His  throne  he  kept  alone  by  blows. 
While  thus  was  waged  the  perilous  fight, 

'Midst  clashing  discord,  strife,  and  jar. 
Fair  forms,  clothed  like  the  Prince,  in  white, 

Did  seem  to  shrink  and  stand  afar, 
And  written  their  fair  brows  above, 
I  saw  these  names,  Peace,  Joy,  and  Love ! 
Then  did  the  vision  dim  and  wane, 
And  to  my  sight  'twas  dark  again. 

How  long  was  now  the  interval, 
Or  by  what  chance  the  change  befell, 
Being  hid  from  me,  I  cannot  tell ; 
But  when,  as  out  of  sleep  aroused, 

I  conscious  saw  the  light  again, 
'Twas  in  a  lowly  dwelling  housed, 

A  cottage,  standing  'midst  a  plain; 
One  spreading  tree  before  the  door, 
Shadowed  the  little  building  o'er; 


260  THE   HISTORY 

Bounding  its  narrow  sward  of  green, 
The  simple  "post  and  rail"  were  seen. 

Across  this  sward,  a  winding  way 
Did  to  the  lowly  entrance  pass, 

Not  broad  and  smooth — in  curves  it  lay, 
As  traced  by  footsteps  through  the  grass. 

Within,  two  rooms  inclosed  were, 
The  first  with  chimney  spreading  wide, 

Its  table,  bench,  and  white  floor,  bare ; 

The  other  with  the  old  arm-chair, 
That  stood  the  window-ledge  beside, 

Was  covered  with  rag-carpet  fair. 
Here  of  unpainted,  ancient  wood, 

With  stout,  deep  shelving,  and  glass  door, 
A  cup-board  in  a  corner  stood, 
Of  curious  shape  triangular. 

I,  with  five  golden  dollars  more, 
Laid  there  unkept  by  bolt  or  bar. 

Within  this  still  secluded  place, 
A  poor,  old  woman*  dwelt  alone, 

Of  Afric's  dusky  hue  and  race. 
Th'  ascending  and  descending  sun 

*  The  true  Disciple. 


OF   A   DOLLAR.  261 

For  her,  all  through  the  summer's  day, 
Sent  his  bright  beams  to  where  I  lay — 
They  filled  the  room,  around,  o'erhead  ! 
A  canopy  of  radiance  spread ! 
Toiling  without,  oft  could  I  hear 

The  song  that  o'er  her  labor  rose, 
Sometimes  a  while  she  would  forbear, 

Would  enter  in,  the  low  door  close, 
And  kneeling  by  the  old  arm-chair, 
"Would  utter  words  I  knew  not,  there. 

At  evening,  toward  the  radiant  west, 
As  toward  some  bright  hope  would  she  look, 
Then  opening  wide  an  ancient  Book, 

Would  read  there,  and  lie  down  to  rest. 
The  Sabbath,  merging  from  the  night, 
Filled  her  with  peace  and  calm  delight ; 
At  times,  slow  wending  on  her  way, 
We  knew  not  where,  afar,  that  day, 
One  of  us  from  her  hard  earned  store, 
She  took  that  was  returned  no  more. 

Thus  lived  she,  yet  within  her  mind 

I  thought  at  length,  upreared  to  find 
Mine  image  as  in  all  before : 

But  searching,  calling  there  my  name, 

From  its  inmost  recesses  came 


262  THE   HISTORY 

My  own  words  back  to  me,  no  more ! 
As  streams,  that,  rushing  from  their  source, 
Meet  rocky  barriers  in  their  course, 
When  these  at  last  are  all  subdued, 
Flow  'midst  those  rocks  in  quietude — 
So  calm,  unruffled,  her  peace  flowed ! 
Not  much  of  it  the  eye  could  tell, 
Nor  did  she  seem  alone  to  dwell, 
But  as  with  one  invisible. 
One  day,  while  cleansing  busily, 
She  paused,  and  said,  with  lifted  eye, 
"I  must  sweep  softly,  brought  so  near, 
For  He,  my  Lord,  my  King  is  here ! " 
At  length,  as  rose  one  summer's  morn, 

Arching  the  east  with  leaden  hue, 
Amid  the  twilight,  while  were  borne, 

The  level  beams  the  window  through, 
As  she  in  silent  musing  sate, 
That  veil — that  small  mysterious  gate, 
Aside  once  more  before  me  drew, 
And  bared  her  heart  within,  to  view. 

There  I  beheld,  upon  the  Throne, 

That  Prince  whom  I  had  seen  before — 
Still  grace  and  glory  round  him  shone ; 


OF   A   DOLLAK.  263 

I  saw  those  white-robed  beings  there, 

Not  shrinking  in  dismay  afar, 

But  joyful  to  him  gathered  near : 
While  he  who  did  the  sword  unsheath, 
Lay  captive,  bound  in  chains  beneath. 

Then  saw  I  how  this  Prince  ruled  o'er 

Both  hearts — the  first  by  constant  war, 
But  here  he  reigned  'midst  perfect  peace  I 

That  very  night,  while  on  her  bed, 
Though  through  the  dark  I  heard  no  tread, 

Thus  spoke  she  as  to  one  unknown : 
"  Oh,  longed  for,  art  thou  come  at  last  ? 
Slow  were  thy  steps — infirm  thy  haste — 

Yet  is  His  chosen  hour  mine  own ! 
I  wait.     Cast  off  this  worn-out  chain, 

This  prison-house  of  dust  remove, 
Eelease  me,  gently  or  with  pain, 
0  Death,  here  ends  thy  troubled  reign, 

Now  dawns  heaven's  endless  day  of  love." 
Then  in  the  little  room  'twas  still,  '  •"*• 

No  more  the  measured  breath  arose, 
And  when  again  light  bathed  the  sill, 

A  cold  form  slept  there  in  repose — 
Surely  'twas  sweet,  no  envious  ill 

Could  waken  it,  or  bitter  foes ! 


SABBATH   AFTEKNOON. 

ONE  Sabbath  afternoon  in  May, 
When  church  and  Sunday-school 

Were  out,  and  long  and  tapering  lay 

The  shadows  up  and  down  my  way, 
And  rose  the  evening  cool — 
By  her  dear  hand,  my  little  one 
I  led  forth  toward  the  setting  sun. 

Not  'midst  the  open  fields  were  we, 
Nor  in  the  wild  wood.     On  each  side 

But  rows  of  houses  could  we  see, 

While  by  us  passed  unceasingly 
Crowds  like  the  river's  tide; 

But  we  were  used  to  this,  nor  felt 
Confined — as  if  we  fetters  wore, 
For  as  our  fathers  had  before 

We  in  the  city  dwelt. 


SABBATH   AFTERNOON.  265 

So  as  we  walked,  her  hand  in  mine 

Close  covered  there,  (how  near  ties  start 

From  out  the  soft  touch,  and  entwine 
Far  in,  around  the  parent's  heart ! ) 

She  looking  up  asked  o'er  and  o'er 

Whither  I  now  was  leading  her  ? 

I  answered  not,  but  passing  on 

Still  listened  to  her  prattling  tongue 

Till  the  high  dwellings  all  passed  by, 

A  long,  low  wall  stretched  on  the  eye ; 

Then  by  a  narrow  gate  in  view 

We  to  the  space  within  passed  through. 

At  the  first  glance  it  seemed  to  spread 

A  simple  field  of  green  around, 
But  as  beyond  the  steps  were  led 

'Midst  silent  solitude  profound, 
The  eye  might  note,  small  hillocks  rose, 

Though  covered  all  with  freshest  green, 
With  now,  at  twilight's  deep'ning  close 

Shadows  more  darkened,  laid  between. 
Up  through  the  midst  a  wide  smooth  way 
Amid  this  field  of  hillocks  lay, 
On  each  side  in  straight  order  stood, 
Trees  whose  new  dress  was  in  the  bud. 

23 


266  SABBATH   AFTERNOON. 

"  My  darling,"  now  I  gently  said, 

"  Here  one  who  loved  you  lieth  dead — 

Here  your  dear  grandmother  is  laid." 

She  answered  not,  but  presently 
Stepping  a  little  way  apart 

Stooped  to  a  flower.     "See,  father,  see!" 
She  cried — what  I  had  meant  to  be 
An  armed  shaft,  reached  not  the  heart ! 

Still  passing  on  I  came  to  where 
The  path  ceased — mingling  with  the  green, 

Then  helping  her  with  reverent  care 
O'er  those  who  laid  to  rest  had  been, 

I  found  one  mound  amid  all  there. 
"This  is  her  grave,"  I  said:  "beneath, 
She  who  once  held  you,  sleeps  in  death — 

Under  this  hillock  she  is  laid ; 
She  loved  her  Saviour — at  his  call 

She  trembled  not :  was  not  afraid, 
But  for  him  gladly  left  us  all." 
I  looked  if  outwardly  confessed, 
The  arrow  yet  had  pierced  her  breast ; 
But  though  some  undefined  sense 
Had  hushed  the  sweet  child's  utterance, 
She  scarce  knew  what  it  was,  nor  whence. 


SABBATH  AFTERNOON.  267 

Turning  back,  now,  I  gained  once  more 
The  gravelled  path  we  trod  before, 
Still  leading  her  close  by  my  side : 

Then  pausing,  'midst  the  silent  way, 
I  said,  "She  glad  and  happy  died. 

Now  if  to  you  were  sent  to-day 
Sickness  and  suffering,  so  that  I 

Would  stoop  down  to  your  bed  and  say 
My  darling  one  must  die, 
What  would  you  tell  me?    Could  you  trust 
In  Jesus,  laid  here  in  the  dust  ?  " 

Then  with  full  tears  about  to  start 
She  answered  tremblingly  and  low, 

Her  voice  choked  by  her  swelling  heart, 
"Father,  I  do  not  know!" 

Oh,  not  to  me  was  given  power 
The  fallen  nature  to  renew ! 

I  felt  it  then,  and  yearning  more 
Over  this  soul  I  turned  my  view 

From  the  green  graves  around  me  there 

Toward  heaven,  all  helpless  but  in  prayer. 
I  have  not  power.     No,  though  above 

All  gifts  I  crave  it  for  this  one 
My  first  born,  heir  of  tenderest  love, 

God  doth  reserve  it  as  his  own. 


268  SABBATH   AFTERNOON. 

I  stood  still,  and  was  taught  again, 
The  Lord — the  Lord  alone  doth  reign ! 

Yes,  He  doth  reign,  but  have  I  not 
His  promises  ?  "  The  seed  of  those 

Who  love  him,  never  more  forget 
Delivered  shall  be  from  their  foes; " 

And  can  he,  unheard,  cast  away 

A  whole  life's  prayer  by  night  and  day  ? 
No,  glorious  truth  that  he  doth  reign ; 

I  step  these  faithless  doubtings  o'er: 
He  can  renew  this  soul  again, 

Than  I,  he  loves  my  children  more, 
And  I  believe,  though  they  be  led 

Through  want  and  suffering  through  life's  waste, 
Whate'er  the  pathway  they  may  tread 

That  his  they  all  shall  be  at  last: 
Yea  more,  that  they  are  his  now,  known 
Where  such  their  names  have  written  down ! 

And  oh,  my  soul,  so  prone  to  sleep 
If  this  thy  thirst  be,  this  thy  want, 

How  watchful  wilt  thou  be  to  keep 
Thy  part  in  the  blest  covenant ! 

How  to  His  presence  wilt  dwell  near 

Who  loves  the  seed  of  those  who  fear ! 


SABBATH  AFTERNOON.  269 

The  right  hand  or  the  treasured  eye, 

Though  harmless  else,  if  they  would  take 
Aught  from  the  power  that  lures  on  high 

Thou'lt  cut  off — pluck  out  for  their  sake ; 
Then  not  for  this  world's  heaped-up  store 

Chiefly  thou'lt  covet,  but  that  grace 
May  be  their  portion — grace  before 

Kiches  or  health,  or  honored  place. 
But  oh,  how  diligent  within, 

How  earnest,  filled  with  constant  care, 
Thou  wilt  be  evermore  to  win 

God's  priceless  gift  for  them  by  prayer, 
For  all  thy  works  short-coming  are, 
Thy  strong,  prevailing  power  is  there. 


23* 


LITTLE   ELLIE. 

"  WHERE  has  little  Ellie  gone  ? 

By  the  garden  gate  below 
I  saw  her  as  the  sun  went  down." 

"No,  mother,  'twas  an  hour  ago, 
I  climbed  the  mount  with  you  to  bring 
Water  from  the  upper  spring." 

"Where  is  Bruno  ?    Since  last  night 
I  erring,  punished  him  for  theft, 

The  dog  has  hidden  from  my  sight." 
"  As  the  first  grove  above  we  left, 

I  thought  beneath  the  Maple's  shade, 

Watching  our  steps  I  saw  him  laid." 
"  Go  to  the  forest's  edge,  my  dear, 

And  call  your  sister.     She  has  strayed 
To  gather  flowers.    Sound  loud  and  clear 
Her  name — she  loiters  somewhere  near." 


LITTLE   ELLIE.  271 

So  spake  the  mother,  and  turned  then 
To  her  accustomed  tasks  again. 
Upon  the  spotless  board  were  spread 
Fresh  fruit  and  milk  and  new-made  bread — 
Soon  upturned  plates  were  by  them  found, 
Three  plates,  then  three  seats  grouped  around : 
One  rudely  made,  a  child's  high-chair. 
But  had  some  eye  been  watching  there, 
It  would  have  marked  as  each  she  placed, 
Her  restless  look  and  step  of  haste. 

"Down  by  the  forest's  edge  I  stood, 

And  called  my  sister  loud  and  plain, 
But,  mother,  from  the  dreary  wood 

Echo  alone  came  back  again." 
"Go  rouse  the  neighbors!  haste  my  child, 

Nor  stay  by  any  cottage  door, 
But  tell  them  in  the  forest  wild 

Ellie  is  lost ! "    Love's  cheat  was  o'er, 
And  like  a  mountain  stream  forth  burst 
The  fears  her  trembling  heart  had  nursed. 

But  as  he  on  his  errand  sped 
She  out  of  sight  as  swift  was  gone, 

Shut  in  her  chamber — by  her  bed 
She  all  alone  to  pray  knelt  down. 


272  LITTLE   ELLIE. 

They  came  from  many  a  rugged  hearth 

Ans'ring  her  call,  nor  tarried  long — 
Brave  men  who  knew  each  dangerous  path, 

Their  hearts  true  as  their  arms  were  strong, 
Nor  they  alone,  the  summons  drew 
Full  many  a  hardy  mother  too, 

For  Bertha  was  a  widow.    Here 
Since  when  the  fair  handmaiden,  Spring, 
Did  o'er  earth's  wintry  boscm  fling 
Mantle  of  waving  grass  and  grain, 

Within  th'  inclosed  grave-yard  near 
Her  husband  slumbering  had  lain. 
Still  here  she  dwelt,  yet  not  alone, 
As  dawn  comes  when  the  night  is  gone--- 
Her  children  grew  and  cheered  her  sight, 
Late  darkened,  with  reviving  light. 
The  bough  by  storms  torn  from  its  place 
Each  tendril  left  fills  larger  space. 

Then  rose  a  gray-haired  man  and  said, 
"I  longest  through  the  forest  wild 

Have  roamed.     Let  my  word  be  obeyed 
In  seeking  for  the  child. 

Thou,  Leonard,  toward  the  deep  Wind-gap, 


LITTLE   ELLIE.  273 

Thou,  Donald,  toward  the  Water-fall 
Direct  your  steps.     I  to  the  top 

Of  Thor  will  hasten ;  and  ye  all 
Spread  out  between  us,  far  and  near 
As  when  we  hunt  the  autumn  deer. 
Then  when  each  o'er  his  search  has  passed 
We'll  meet  at  Dripping  Eock  at  last." 
Full  fifty  voices  answered  back 
"  So  will  we  do." 

By  many  a  track 

Through  the  dark  forest  torches  gleamed — 
The  lighted  trunks  vast  pillars  seemed ! 
Each  hardy  hunter  hastened  on 
As  though  his  own  the  loved,  lost  one, 
And  Bertha  led  her  boy  alone. 

"  Mother,  I  heard  my  sister  say, 
In  the  dark  woods  where  no  one  sees 
Were  bushes  filled  with  blackberries, 

And  that  when  you  were  gone  away, 
That  she  might  bring  them  to  you  home, 
She  would  go  there  and  gather  some." 
"  Why  this  before  did  you  not  speak  ? 

My  child,  my  child,  you  did  not  well." 
"  Surely  my  aching  heart  will  break, 
At  first  I  did  no  notice  take, 
And  since  I  feared  to  tell." 


274  LITTLE   ELLIE. 

"  Oh  weep  no  more,  her  words  forgot 
I  might  myself  have  answered  not, 

So  often  prattled  forth  unmeant. 
Though  found  or  lost — whate'er  her  lot — 

Thou  only  left,  art  innocent." 

They  see  the  circle  stretching  far 
Of  blazing  lights.    None  resting  are, 
But  through  the  double  night  they  move 
A  little  army  led  by  love. 
"  Ah,  see  the  heavens,  how  calm,  how  bright, 
Each  unchanged  planet  sheds  its  light. 
Think  at  this  hour  how  oft  I  slept, 
And  safe  my  lost  one  by  me  kept, 
Nor  knew  my  blessings  till  bereft !" 

At  intervals  the  call  would  sound 
From  far  off  voices  of  her  name, 

Filling  the  solitudes  around, 
But  back  no  wished-for  answer  came. 

"  Hark !  was  that  not  a  human  cry  ? 
Hush !  stop,  and  listen !     All  is  still, 

It  sounds  again,  now  brought  more  nigh — 
'Tis  but  some  startled  whip-poor-will." 
Onward  they  pressed,  till  one  faint  streak 
Showed  the  new  day  about  to  break, 


LITTLE   ELLIE.  275 

And  as  grew  bright  the  purple  dawn, 
All,  filled  yet  with  the  midnight's  gloom, 
Met  at  the  Eock  appointed  on. 

Then  spoke  the  gray-haired  man  again, 
"  Our  zeal  hath  carried  us  too  far ; 

Such  tender  lamb  on  the  smooth  plain 
Could  not  have  reached  where  we  now  are, 
Much  less  o'er  ground  so  rude  and  bold, 
Escaped  so  lately  from  the  fold ! 
Back  then,  we  have  the  light  of  day 
Wherewith  to  search  again  our  way. 
Swift  shall  we  our  night's  steps  retrace — 
Search  ye  each  nook,  each  covered  place — 
Soon  shall  we  see  the  lost  child's  face !" 
Backward  they  turn  with  strength  anew. 
How  may  one  trusting  soul  endue 
Desponding  hearts  by  words  of  faith ! 
Hope  lives  or  dies  oft  by  a  breath. 

Now  all  the  forest  multitude 

Uprose  as  rose  the  morning  sun, 
Bird,  insect,  beast  to  seek  its  food — 

Their  day  of  glad  toil  was  begun ; 
But  every  joyous  call  or  note 
From  locust's  wing  or  warbler's  throat, 


276  LITTLE   ELLIE. 

Th'  accustomed  chord  not  reaching  now 
Of  joy,  touched  that  which  deepens  woe. 
Her  way,  bereaved,  the  mother  traced, 
Wat'ring  with  tears  the  forest  waste. 
"  What  is  it  though  ten  thousand  more 
For  love  to  me  search  every  spot, 
If  the  dear  one  they  search  now  for 
They  find  me  not,  they  find  me  not  ? 
Kindness  methought  I  valued  most, 
But  'midst  such  suffering  it  is  lost!" 
Hark,  mother,  through  the  rising  morn 
The  shrill  blast  of  a  hunter's  horn, 
The  signal  he  should  quick  send  back 
Who  first  should  cross  the  wand'rer's  track  ; 
Another  swells  the  loud  note  too — 
It  rings  afar  the  forest  through ! 
Come,  Bertha,  haste !     "  Oh  heart,  be  still." 

This  is  the  time  we  trembling  wait 
When  known  not  which,  comes  good  or  ill, 

But  it  is  fixed,  the  doom  of  fate ! 
By  the  lone,  lofty  water-fall 
That  seems  with  joyous  shout  to  call, 
See  where  thy  little  one  now  sleeps : 
Laid  on  the  grass  'neath  spreading  trees, 
Near  her  a  cup  of  blackberries, 
While  watch  o'er  both  stern  Bruno  keeps  1 


LITTLE   ELLIE.  277 

She  wakes  not,  but  her  gentle  breath 
Tells  of  the  beating  heart  beneath, 
And  the  rich  hues  upon  her  cheek 
Of  health  and  full  deliverance  speak. 
The  hunters,  panting,  thither  press 
From  the  surrounding  wilderness  ; 
Their  hopes  yet  captive  held  by  fears, 
They  gaze  upon  the  upturned  face, 
And  turn  to  hide  unwonted  tears. 
"  Awake,  my  love,  your  mother  see ! " 
Her  eyes  are  opened  toward  the  light — 
She  smiles.     "  Beside  this  bush  last  night, 
Mother,  an  angel  was  with  me. 
But  if  I  did  sleep  by  the  trees, 
I  filled  your  cup  with  blackberries !" 
Take  back  thy  child,  thy  tremblings  o'er, 

And  learn  to  trust  in  Him  whose  arm 
Doth  shield  the  tender  lambs.     No  more 

Eepine  or  doubt:  dismay  or  harm 
Nor  come,  nor  go  at  thy  command — 
He  watcheth,  and  his  guiding  hand 
Leads  her  through  perils  ever  near, 
"When  far  thou  art  as  when  thou'rt  here. 

24 


278  LITTLE    ELLIE. 

Yet  limit  not  his  sovereign  ways ; 

Though  not  returned,  but  given  to  death 
Thy  darling  were — still  wouldst  thou  praise, 

If  from  this  darkened  world  beneath 
Thou  couldst  discern,  how  for  her  sake 
And  thine,  he  called  her.     We  may  take 
Not  yet  the  thick  film  from  our  eye, 

Nor  rend  the  cloud  that  wraps  this  dust, 
But  in  our  brief  captivity 

What  is  not  seen,  we  may  intrust  I 


THE   POETIC  FACULTY. 

"  THEEE  little  ships  I  saw  come  up  the  steep 
Far  out  at  sea — they  nearer  drew  to  shore, 

I  saw  him  land  with  glad,  exulting  leap, 

Who  found  this  new  world  for  mankind  once  more; 

Stretching  upon  thy  thought  so  far  away, 

It  lies  in  my  sight  but  as  yesterday ! 

"  Last  eve  I  rose  from  the  Pacific's  side, 

And  with  the  wind's  swift  pinions  to  me  lent, 

With  mighty  swoop — with  one  flight,  vast  and  wide, 
Swept  o'er  the  bosom  of  the  Continent. 

I  saw  all  budding  fields,  all  Nature's  boast, 

Spread  like  a  flowered  robe,  from  coast  to  coast ! 


280  THE   POETIC  FACULTY. 

"  Old  forests,  that  all  winter  stripped  and  bare, 
Wailed  to  the  tempest  and  were  filled  with  gloom, 

Wide  desolate  wastes  that  icy  garments  wear, 
And  silent  glens — were  springing  into  bloom. 

Unnumbered  lovely  haunts  not  known  to  men, 

As  one  bower  waken  into  life  again  1 " 

"  In  thy  discourse,"  I  asked,  "  what  shall  I  find  ?  " 
"Hearken,"  the  voice  replied,  "and  know  my  name: 

I  am  that  Spirit  of  the  deathless  mind, 

Which  men  do  worship  when  they  thirst  for  fame. 

I  am  that  Genius,  given  but  to  few, 

Which  yet,  all  never  cease  to  seek  and  woo. 

"  This  is  the  lesson  my  discourse  would  teach, 

That  though  my  vision  pierceth  through  all  Time, 

Though  to  the  gates  of  Heaven  my  pinions  reach, 
Though  I  may  lift  thy  name  to  heights  sublime, 

Yet  all  these  gifts,  though  they  do  seem  to  bless, 

Cannot  alone  bring  thee  true  happiness. 

"  Each  rational  soul — each  insect  of  the  air, 
Each  sparrow  'midst  a  summer's  forest  leaves, 

Hath  its  appointed  place.     He  formed  them  there, 
Whose  purpose  lives  in  everything  that  breathes. 

Thee,  also,  to  thy  task  He  now  would  bring, 

Prepared  by  gifts — humbled  by  suffering ! " 


SEVERITY   AND   GENTLENESS. 

WHILE  slumber  bound  mine  eyes,  last  niglit, 

Methought  that  from  some  lofty  height 

An  Eagle  touched  me  in  his  flight ! 

I  seized  the  bird,  and  struggling  tried 

T'  imprison  him  fast  by  my  side : 

Long  did  he  furious  battle  wage ! 

Hurt,  I  oft  struck  at  him  in  rage ! 

But  while  I  wounded  him  the  more 

Deeper  my  bleeding  side  he  tore, 

Until  at  length,  I,  strangely  moved, 

Stroked  his  fierce  head  as  one  who  loved, 

When  lo,  he  ceased — he  laid  at  rest, 

Peaceful,  serene  upon  my  breast, 

And  I  saw  in  the  vision  fair, 

Now  'twas  a  Dove  that  nestled  there ! 


24* 


SELF-CONCEIT. 

CONCEIT  a  thousand  forms  will  take, 
Though  we  be  humble  —  seeking  right, 

Some  bandage  for  the  eyes  she'll  make, 
That  blinds  us  in  the  very  light. 

If  all  our  thirst  is  to  be  known— 

The  fool's  idolatry  of  Fame, 
She  points  where  loftiest  names  have  flown, 

And  whispers  "  Thy  powers  are  the  same  !  " 


she  finds  a  straggler  weak, 
From  Life's  path  wand'ring  o'er  the  plain 
Pretending  him  she  came  to  seek 
She  plieth  swift  God's  name  in  vain. 


CONCEIT.  283 

There  is,  she  says,  A  work  reserved 
For  thee  to  do — the  time  is  come — 

Arise !  thy  weak  arm  hath  been  nerved — 
Not  for  thy  gain,  but  God  alone. 

Oh  knew  we  not  there  is  a  Power 

That  hemmeth  in  our  goings  aside, 
Faithful  in  our  most  faithless  hour : 

Following  e'en  when  our  steps  backslide ; 

How  could  we  ever  hope  to  gain 
The  goal  that  seems  removed  so  far, 

Or  'scape  the  dangers  of  the  plain, 
Where  no  assisting  angels  are  ? 


TO  HIM  WHO  LOYES  TO  MEDITATE. 

WHEN  pausing  by  the  way-side,  filled  with  thought, 
The  inner  chamber  of  thy  heart  is  still, 

And  by  the  whisp'ring  spirit  thou  art  taught, 
They  are  the  blest  who  do  their  Maker's  will ; 

When,  as  it  were,  by  some  celestial  hand, 
The  veil  is  lifted  up  which  hides  from  sight 

The  hill  of  Zion,  and  that  pilgrim  band 

Who  climb  its  pathway  toward  the  realms  of  light ; 

And  as  their  songs  of  praise  come  echoing  back, 
Thine  eye  doth  follow  them  afar  to  find, 

Among  the  trav'lers  on  that  heavenward  track, 
Brothers  and  friends  who  have  left  thee  behind; 


TO   HIM  WHO   LOVES  TO   MEDITATE.          285 

When  thy  soul's  rescue  seems  almost  begun, 
Looking  aloft,  she  craves  a  portion  there, 

And  stretching  forth  her  arms  she  longs  for  one 
Of  the  white  robes  which  Jesus'  followers  wear ; 

Know  that  it  is  not  of  thyself  they  spring, 
These  deep  unearthly  longings.     To  thy  heart 

Full  messages  of  love  from  One  they  bring, 

Who  woos  thee  thus,  to  choose  "the  better  part!" 


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